


Apple A Day

by dracoqueen22



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Bets, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Idiot's Guide to Courting, M/M, Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Romance, Tactile Interfacing, Threesome - M/M/M, Twincest, courting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-08 17:49:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 26,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An apple a day keeps the medic away. But Sunstreaker and Sideswipe have no clue what Ratchet has in store for them. The hunters become the hunted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Morning After

Sunstreaker onlines slowly, systems more or less dragging into their boot sequences instead of leaping sharply into awareness. The last to come online are his optics, and that with great reluctance. His joints feel tight, his vents clogged, and his sensors too responsive for his comfort.  
  
Frag but Wheeljack's special mix of Praxian high grade and Earth's highest octane fuel packs a punch. He'd had half a dozen cubes of it. And Sides'd had more than him.  
  
From their bond, Sunstreaker senses nothing but static. Either Sides has yet to online, or he's feeling substantially worse than Sunstreaker.  
  
Sunstreaker doesn't want to move, but there's a blinking light in the corner of his HUD, reminding him that his shift starts in ten minutes. Which is just enough time to drag his aft to a washrack and try to wash out the aches with the gentlest grade of energon.  
  
Something's lying on his right arm. Or shall he say, Sideswipe. With a grunt, Sunstreaker jerks his arm free, rolls over, and promptly topples off of the berth with a resounding clatter.  
  
Ow. That certainly hadn't helped his systems settle. His tanks roil unpleasantly.  
  
“Huh? Whozawhat'sit?” Sideswipe's mumble floats down from the berth.  
  
“Fraggit! Too early for noise,” someone else mutters, sounding grumpy.  
  
Sunstreaker freezes on the floor. Two voices? Slag. This can't be good. He grabs the edge of the berth and drags himself up, bleary optics making out a bright white paintjob just as Sideswipe mumbles, “Who?”  
  
Recognition floods Sunstreaker's sluggish processor and he leaps to his pedes, instantly regretting the too-quick motion when his gyros reel out of equilibrium. “Ratchet!”  
  
Sideswipe jerks upward, sitting up in an instant. “Where?” he demands, and then groans, clutching his helm. “It's too fraggin' bright in here.”  
  
“Right here, you halfwit,” Ratchet grumbles and with a laborious motion, drags himself upward, squinting around the room. ”It's too early for this slag.”  
  
Sunstreaker's gapes. “You!” he splutters, pointing at Ratchet with one finger. “You!”  
  
“Me,” Ratchet agrees. “And for the record, I'm blaming this on Perceptor.”  
  
“Did we...?” Sideswipe trails off, as though unwilling to finish. One hand clumsily gropes at his plating, as though he can tell from touch alone. Which is quite frankly impossible.  
  
Ratchet hauls himself off the berth, looking more spry than either of the twins. “Let me know when your memory cores catch up. I'll be in my med bay,” he grumbles, and sweeps out of their room without so much as a by your leave.  
  
“Did he just...?”  
  
“Yeah, I think he did,” Sunstreaker replies. And then his HUD starts beeping incessantly. Five minutes now.   
  
“Frag!” He rushes from the room, leaving Sideswipe to deal with the aftermath of... whatever that was. He'll have to deal with this later.   
  
***


	2. Morning After Redux

His memory core is still full of fuzz, even hours later and halfway through his shift. In fact, Sunstreaker's processor is starting to ache in a not-fun kind of way with the beginnings of overcharge. A hangover as the humans would call it.   
  
And Sideswipe whining over their private comm is not helping at all. Fragger's the lucky one who's off-shift.   
  
\--Are you sure you don't remember anything?--  
  
Sunstreaker shifts in his chair, trying to focus on the monitors and failing. Miserably. -- _No_. And if you fragging ask me again I'm going to kick your aft so hard you'll taste mud for a week.--  
  
\--Harsh, Sunny,-- Sidewipe retorts.   
  
\--Then stop irritating me.--  
  
There's a long moment of brief, wonderful silence. Sunstreaker contemplates closing his optics just to ease the pain of too-bright lights on his optical sensors. But a quick glance at Red Alert proves he's being watched. Can't get nothing past him. Fraggit.   
  
Sunstreaker mutters under his breath, rolls his aching neck cables, and tries in vain to get comfortable.   
  
\--What do you think he meant?-- Sideswipe asks, apparently done mulling and back to irritating his brother.   
  
\--By what?--  
  
\--Blaming Perceptor.--   
  
Sunstreaker raps his fingers across his console, feeling a twitch of aggravation dance through his circuits. Of all the mechs in all the universe, why did Primus have to saddle him with Sideswipe for a twin?   
  
\--How the frag should I know?-- he demands waspishly.   
  
Sullen disappointment flickers across their twin-bond. --Primus, you're in a mood today.--  
  
Sunstreaker grits his denta with a squeal of metal on metal. --I'm blaming you.--  
  
\--Fragging Ratchet is not my fault!-- Sideswipe shouts into the comm.   
  
Sunstreaker winces visibly. --Tone it down, glitch.--  
  
\--You're the glitch.--  
  
\--We're twins, dumbaft.--  
  
\--My point is made.-- Sideswipe huffs into the comm, like he's about to go into a drawn out sulk the likes of which their fellow Autobots have never seen. --Are you sure you don't remember anything?--  
  
Sunstreaker cuts off the comm without responding to his annoying twit of a brother and huffs. He glares at the monitor, currently cycling through several views of the outer perimeter, where nothing so much as moves. Oh wait. There went a rabbit.   
  
Slag Prowl and his idea of punishment. This is boring!  
  
His processor wanders. He tries in vain to poke his memory circuit into producing a hint of what had happened last night. He remembers the party and the taste of the high grade, sharp and acerbic, hitting his tanks with a punch.   
  
There had been dancing, too. Somehow, Bumblebee had coaxed the other mini-bots into joining him on a table. Sunstreaker blames that on the high grade, too. Mini-frames can't handle it and apparently, neither could frontliners.   
  
He remembers hands on his plating, skillful hands. The heavy ventilations of an overheated frame in the darkness of their quarters. The blue glow of optics. The bright crawl of static across their frames. The ecstasy of an overload that lasts and lasts.   
  
He doesn't remember Ratchet.   
  
But by Primus, does he wish he could.   
  
Movement in his peripheral sensors tugs Sunstreaker out of his musings. He turns, watching as Jazz plops down in the open chair beside him. Instead of speaking, however, the Spec Ops mech simply stares at Sunstreaker. He's grinning, too. One of those smirks that carries great amusement.   
  
Sunstreaker scowls. “What?”   
  
Jazz's grin widens as he lounges in the chair. “So...?” One hand lazily twirls in the air.   
  
“So what?” Sunstreaker demands, optics burning with the force of his glare.   
  
Jazz chuckles, leaning forward conspiratorially. “C'mon, Sunshine. _Details_. Inquiring mechs want to know.”   
  
“Don't call me that.” Sunstreaker gives the annoying mech – superior officer or not – a disgusted look. “The frag are you talking about?”   
  
“Everyone saw Ratch drag you two out last night,” Jazz says, vocals a little louder now, making it easier for those that are unashamedly eavesdropping to hear him. “And I got my good stuff hinging on the details.”   
  
Sunstreaker honestly can't answer the question. He doesn't _remember_ last night, fraggit. So he stares at Jazz.   
  
Ratchet had dragged _them_ out? Yergh. They're never going to live this one down.   
  
Jazz's visor flickers, his jaw dropping. “No way.”   
  
Sunstreaker looks away, trying to focus on the screen. Monitor duty, yes. He's here, on shift, not supposed to be gossiping with the resident busybody.   
  
“You don't remember!” Jazz exclaims like this is new to Sunstreaker. He laughs, falling back against his chair and laughing even harder.   
  
Everyone's staring now and making no attempt to hide it.   
  
“Frag. Ironhide's not going to believe this. The seducers become the seduced. Classic.” Jazz dissolves into chuckles yet again.   
  
A low growl of irritation escapes Sunstreaker before he can stop it. “Are you going to mock me or tell me what you know?” Like the Pit he's going to ask _Ratchet_.   
  
Jazz taps his mouthplate. “Hmm. I was gonna but y'know, I think it's funnier this way.” He leaps up from his chair, waggling his fingers at Sunstreaker. “Later.”   
  
Sunstreaker snarls, but Jazz is quick, dancing out of reach and making haste from the control room before Sunstreaker can chase him down. And now, he can see that everyone had indeed been watching them.   
  
“What are you looking at?” Sunstreaker demands.   
  
No one replies, their helms swiveling back to the monitors. Red Alert looks faintly annoyed and Blaster appears to be snickering, but no one speaks.   
  
Sunstreaker turns back toward his monitor, a twitch in his circuits, the lingering pain in his processor worse now.   
  
Someone pings him with a personal comm.   
  
\--By the way,-- Jazz says, his ident code flashing across Sunstreaker's HUD. --White streaks suit your paint job. Just sayin'.--  
  
Jazz cuts off the comm as quickly as he pinged in.   
  
What the frag is he...?  
  
Sunstreaker looks down, staring with horror at the long and broad sweeps of white paint that streak his leg plating. There are smaller transfers on his chestplate, too. He'd walked through the halls like this?  
  
Fraggit it all to the Pit!

 

***


	3. Hangover

Ten minutes after Ratchet flees the scene of the crime and Sunstreaker abandons him, Sideswipe musters enough energy to drag his aching carcass out of the berth.   
  
Obviously, he'd consumed more than his twin, considering his state of utter agony. His tanks are churning. His sensors are bombarding his HUD with uncomfortable input. And there's a tight ache in his circuits. Like he'd spent the night overloading again and again and again....  
  
His memory core responds with errors, static, and obvious glitches when he gives it a curious ping.   
  
Sideswipe groans and staggers to the door, hoping some nice low grade might give him a reset. It's _bright_ out in the hallway. He dials down his optics. On second thought, he dials down his audials, too.   
  
The wall is his best friend right now, supporting him as he drags his aft to the Rec Room. One hand slides along the bright orange metal. Who, in their right processor, would pick _orange_? Oh yeah, Grapple. No accounting for taste then.   
  
“Sides!”   
  
The red twin winces as the shout assaults his sensitive audials. He turns to greet Smokescreen when an arm suddenly crashes down over his shoulders, a weight draping across his left side.   
  
“Hey, Smoker,” Sideswipe says, staggering and dredging up a grin for one of his favorite partners-in-crime.   
  
“You look like the Pit,” Smokescreen replies with an assessing glance from Sideswipe's helm to his pedes. “Guess you finally met something you couldn't handle.”   
  
Sideswipe sags a little more. Has Smokescreen always been this heavy? “No way. I'm just feeling lazy today.”   
  
“I call bullshit.” Smokescreen bears more of his weight down on Sideswipe, to prove his point.   
  
Sideswipe wobbles and flares out an arm to compensate.   
  
Grinning, Smokescreen leans closer, until his olfactory sensor is practically pressed to Sideswipe's shoulder. “And is that ozone I detect?”   
  
Sideswipe pointedly looks himself over from helm to pede before looking back at Smokescreen with utter innocence. “I don't know what you're talking about.”   
  
“Right,” the diversionary specialist drawls. “And Tracks didn't see Ratchet hightailing it out of your quarters twenty minutes ago either.”   
  
Oh. Right. Ratchet.   
  
What the frag's that all about?  
  
Sideswipe helm throbs and he groans, tanks churning. Smokescreen steers them into the rec room. This time of the morning, it should be empty. Sideswipe's luck is not so great however and it's pretty much packed with every off-duty mech.   
  
Oh. And Smokescreen's still waiting for him to say something.   
  
Better to pretend he knows what Smokescreen's implying. Mech can sniff out humiliating info like it was high grade energon.   
  
“Oh. Ratchet.” Sideswipe inclines his helm, wobbling toward the energon dispenser and grabbing himself a cube of something easy. “Wonder where he got off to?”   
  
Smokescreen bursts into laughter, slapping Sideswipe across the back. “Cool as ice, aren't you? Especially when every mech in here saw Ratchet doing the seducing.”   
  
Sideswipe scoffs, slumping down into the first available chair. “No way.”   
  
“Yes way,” Bluestreak says, sliding in next to Sideswipe as Smokescreen brackets the red twin on the other side. “I took image captures and video just so I could prove it.” He nudges Sideswipe with an elbow. “And we always thought it to be a joke when we said Ratchet's the only one capable of wrangling you two.”   
  
“And now it's time for details,” Tracks adds, appearing out of nowhere to sit across the table from Sideswipe, grinning like an idiot. He must have just come off shift, meaning Sunstreaker probably replaced him. “You know what they say about medics, right?” He winks.   
  
Sideswipe feels a little trapped, surrounded if you will. He gulps down half his cube of low grade, biting back a groan as it hits his unsettled tanks with a gurgle. “A gentlemech never kisses and tells,” he hedges.   
  
Smokescreen arches an orbital ridge. “Since when have you been a gentlemech?”  
  
“Since when have you opted not to boast about your conquests?” Tracks adds.   
  
Bluestreak laughs. “Yeah, I remember when you and Sunstreaker decided to welcome me to the crew. Best welcome I ever got. Since when do you play coy?”  
  
“Since now,” Sideswipe bluffs and downs the rest of his cube, frantically pinging his memory core for details. An image. _Something_.   
  
He gets a blur. A snippet of sound, Ratchet's voice moaning his designation. The sensation of ecstasy sparking across his frame. A glossa on his neck cables, a sharp nip of denta. A teasing look in Ratchet's optics.   
  
Judging by the ache in his circuits, Sideswipe can only assume he'd had a good time. But fraggit, he can't remember.   
  
Then Tracks looks at him, something shrewd in optics. “Primus!” he exclaims, with a tone that's half-incredulous and half-ecstatic. “You don't remember!” He half-rises, pointing at Sideswipe in sudden revelation. “He completely blew your circuits, didn't he?”   
  
“Really?” Bluestreak's doorwings perk upward in obvious interest. “He did? Sunstreaker, too? Wow! I'm jealous, so jealous. You two always have the best luck.”  
  
Smokescreen laughs so hard that all the mechs in the rec room turn and stare, which includes several minibots, the entire Aerialbot gestalt, three-fifths of the Protectobots and an assemblage of scientists – including Perceptor.   
  
“How many circuits did he fry?” Smokescreen demands, slapping the table in his hilarity. “No wonder you look like slag!”   
  
Sideswipe groans and puts his helm down on the table, burying his faceplate in his arms. He has no words. None. And apparently, he doesn't have any friends, either. Just mechs who are going to tease him to offlining.   
  
\--Hey, Sunny,-- he says, trying to ping his twin on their private comm line.   
  
He doesn't get an answer. Fragger's ignoring him.   
  
\--Sunny?--  
  
“Two cubes of Polyhexian says he's gonna need a circuit board replaced,” Smokescreen says.   
  
Tracks chuckles. “A tin of Iacon's Finest says that he'll be begging for more.”   
  
Bluestreak leans forward, across the table. “Oo! Let me in on that one. I have two cubes of Wheeljack's special to put up for grabs!”   
  
“Guys,” Sideswipe says, his words muffled against the tabletop. “I'm right here.”   
  
An elbow digs into his backplate as Smokescreen leans over him, using his frame as a rest. “Oh, we know. Is Wheeljack's special from before or after he was banned from using potentially explosive chemicals?”   
  
“Before,” Bluestreak informs them smugly.   
  
“I am _so_ in,” Tracks announces.   
  
\--Come on, Sunny. Talk to me!--  
  
His helm aches. He could really use some kind of medical help. Maybe if he asks Hoist nicely...?  
  
“Fair warning, it's toxic,” Bluestreak says with a cheerful chirp. “C'mon, Sideswipe. I don't want to lose this cube. How many circuits did Ratchet blow?”  
  
\-- _Sunny_!--  
  
\--Don't call me that,-- his brother finally responds with a surge of irritation passing across their link. --What the frag do you want?--  
  
Where's a Decepticon attack when you need one?  
  
Sideswipe groans. --Do you remember anything from last night?--  
  
\--Of course not.--  
  
 _Frag_.   
  
He's never going to live this down.   
  
****


	4. Walk of Shame

If he hadn't been waiting around the corner, eager to catch Ratchet in a compromising position, Ironhide might have missed this.   
  
But he _had_ been waiting, so he had seen Ratchet first stalk out of the twin's quarters, then creep through the hallways, avoiding all contact with other mechs, and head straight for the medbay.   
  
Ironhide had followed him because this sort of event is monumental. And perfect fodder for teasing later.   
  
Ratchet must be distracted because he doesn't notice Ironhide all but stalking him. The medic stomps into his medbay and heads straight for the private washracks. Must have something to do with the long streaks of bright yellow and red that give evidence to a really, really good time.   
  
If he'd been human, it would be the equivalent of coming home wearing last night's clothing, hair a mess, and missing a sock. Ironhide grins.   
  
Leaning in the open doorway, Ironhide watches as Ratchet turns on the spray and starts scrubbing at his plating, attacking the streaks of misplaced paint with a vengeance. The medic is also muttering to himself, mostly a string of cursewords and self-castigation.  
  
This is the perfect time to announce himself.   
  
“Well, well, well,” Ironhide says and his grin stretches wider as the sound of his vocals make Ratchet startle and whirl around. “What have we here?”   
  
The medic's mouth opens and closes before he stubbornly turns back toward the spray of the washrack and says nothing.   
  
Vastly amused, Ironhide remains undaunted. “Yanno,” he adds, watching as Ratchet scrubs and scrubs at a long swipe of yellow paint on his thigh. “The humans have a term fer this. They call it the walk of shame.”   
  
Ironhide also makes certain to take several image captures. For bargaining later of course. Never know when one might need info on the Hatchet.   
  
Ratchet throws a glare over his shoulder, the gleam in his optics threatening payback on Ironhide.   
  
He allows himself to be worried but only for a second. Ratchet would never hurt him. Permanently, at least, because then he'd have to fix the damage.   
  
“Nice shade of yellow,” Ironhide adds, staring pointedly at the interesting splotch that mars Ratchet's backplate. “Goes well with the red.” A red, by the way, which doesn't match Ratchet's own choice in paint.   
  
Ratchet starts to attack a streak of yellow on his left arm. “Are you through?”   
  
Ironhide chuckles. “Just gettin' started.”   
  
The medic huffs, muttering to himself. “Nosy old rust bucket.”   
  
“Yer older than me.”   
  
“By two whole orns!” Ratchet splutters, throwing another glare over his shoulders. It lacks heat, however, and emanates more embarrassment than angry.   
  
“Still older.” Ironhide looks Ratchet over from helm to pede pointedly, adding a leer. “Robbin' the cradle, eh? Didn't know that was yer flavor of energon.”   
  
Ratchet whirls and tosses the soapy scrub rag at Ironhide, forcing him to duck.   
  
“Oh. Testy,” Ironhide teases, ducking another wet projectile. “Maybe the twins weren't doin' it right if yer still this wound up.”   
  
Ratchet's hands curl into fists at his side as he stalks toward Ironhide, spluttering. “You... you...”   
  
Ironhide shakes his helm. “Can't teach a young mech old tricks, I guess. Am I right?”   
  
It's easy enough to dodge the punch Ratchet tosses at him. Mech's not seriously trying to injure, otherwise Ironhide would be in some trouble.   
  
“Geeze, Ratch,” Ironhide huffs, ducking one blow and catching Ratchet's wrist before the medic can throw another. “Are ya mad ya berthed the twins or embarrassed?”   
  
Blue optics blaze at him before cycling down in annoyance. “I blame Perceptor,” Ratchet growls.   
  
Ironhide chuckles. “I don't think it's his fault ya finally went after what you wanted. Speaking of which... why now?”   
  
Ratchet looks away, a clear indication of his embarrassment. He mumbles something that Ironhide doesn't catch.   
  
“What was that?”   
  
“... lost a bet,” Ratchet spits out, a bit louder this time. “Perceptor's fault.”   
  
Ironhide supposes the only way he's going to get a full explanation is to actually ask Perceptor.   
  
“Okay...” Ironhide releases his hold on Ratchet's wrist and the medic draws away from him, still dripping water. “Why the twins?”   
  
Ratchet scowls. “None of your business.”   
  
Touchy, touchy. Maybe there's more to this than a one-night sharing of the berth.   
  
Ironhide stares at Ratchet. “Ratch, are you planning to... court them?” He can't hide the incredulity in his tone.   
  
Not that there's anything wrong with Sideswipe or Sunstreaker, but aiming for permanence? Ironhide would have never guessed it. The medic with a wrench and the terror twins? It seems an ill match.   
  
The medic pushes past him without a word. Ironhide turns to follow, noticing the way Ratchet's armor is clamped tightly to his frame, his energy field equally contained.   
  
“Ratch?”   
  
“It's a stupid idea,” Ratchet all but snarls, bristling with indignation. “I should've never considered it.” He stomps around his medbay, prepping berths and organizing tools in case of injury. “Frag Perceptor and Wheeljack both!”   
  
Ironhide's optics cycle out in surprise. “That's a yes then,” he says musingly. “Primus, Ratch, ya don't do anything by halves, do ya?”   
  
Ratchet slams a welder down onto a table, glaring at Ironhide. “Are you going to help me or not?”   
  
Help? Since when did Ironhide get drafted into this? Well, he supposes that Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are under his command, being frontliners and all, and he ought to know more about them than any other mech. Except where he doesn't.   
  
He spreads his hands, palms down. “Depends on what you need from me. I ain't deliverin' any sparkly, poetic love letters.”   
  
“I think I have more taste than that,” Ratchet retorts with a roll of his optics, but at least the bristliness in his plating starts to fade.   
  
“Or flowers,” Ironhide adds, waggling a forefinger at the medic. “Nor boxes of energon goodies or mix tapes or anythin' else stupidly sappy. Yer gonna have to be cleverer than that if ya think those two idiots are gonna get it.”   
  
Ratchet snorts. “Don't you think I know that? … Wait. Mix tapes?”   
  
Ironhide rolls his shoulders. “Dunno. Something Spike did for Carly. She seemed to like it.”   
  
Amusement replaces some of the ire. “I'll let Sunstreaker know you compared him to Carly.”   
  
“Not in so many words!”   
  
Ratchet chuckles. “Then you'll help me?”   
  
Ironhide supposes he doesn't have anything better to do. Besides, this is the kind of blackmail info a mech dreams of. And he'll have it on the Hatchet? Even better!  
  
He grins. “Course I will. What's the plan?”   
  
Ratchet's optics glint and he smirks. A rather evil smirk that would have made Sideswipe or Jazz for that matter, very, very proud.   
  
****


	5. Comparing Notes

By the time Sunstreaker drags his exhausted aft back to his shared quarters with Sideswipe, he's ready to collapse on his berth, cursing Prowl out the whole time. He's not even the one who started that fight!  
  
He opens the door and within seconds, is glomped by his brother, who's doing a rather accurate impression of Bluestreak after having one too many overloads.   
  
“Look what I got!” Sideswipe gushes, throwing his arms around Sunstreaker and giving him an enthusiastic hug.   
  
“You've been hanging out with Bluestreak too much,” Sunstreaker grunts, trying to shove his hyper brother away. “Get off.”   
  
Sideswipe squeezes him harder. “No! I want to hug you. I want affection!”   
  
What. The. Frag.   
  
Sunstreaker growls, prying his brother's arms away from his frame before the red menace leaves him covered in scratches. “Affection? Seriously. What the slag is wrong with you?”  
  
Sideswipe giggles. Yes, he actually giggles. “Nothing! I'm fine. Everything's just fine. It's dandy. I'm great!... How are you?” He beams brightly and tries to hug Sunstreaker again.   
  
He gives his twin a confused look. “Did someone taint your energon?” Because if so, they were in for a world of hurt. Sunstreaker does not want a clingy brother right now. “Wait. Shouldn't you be hungover?” Like Sunstreaker still is?   
  
Sideswipe rolls his optics, playfully slapping Sunstreaker on the shoulder. “Naww. Hoist gave me something. Fixed me right up! I didn't see Ratchet anywhere though.” He frowns in drugged thoughtfulness. “Wonder where he's hiding.”   
  
Great. Hoist must have overdosed him. Which means Sideswipe was acting like a glitch more than he usually does. Overdosing Sideswipe is a common defense mechanism for a lot of bots. First Aid does it, too.   
  
Sunstreaker sighs and pushes past his twin, heading deeper into their quarters, where he collapses with much joy atop their over-large berth. What a fragging day.   
  
“Bro?”   
  
“Not now, Sideswipe,” Sunstreaker says, his words muffled by the padding of the berth. “I just want to recharge and forget this morning happened.”   
  
“Why would you want to do a silly thing like that?”   
  
He hears a loud scraping sound. Then the berth jostles.   
  
Sunstreaker turns his helm to see Sideswipe perched on a chair, hanging on the side of the bed, his chin propped on his palms. That's it. Tomorrow, Sunstreaker's going to make Hoist's life very unpleasant. Hyper Sideswipe does not for a happy Sunstreaker make.   
  
“So,” Sideswipe says with a sharp snap of the word. “You going to tell me what you remember from last night?” His optics all but sparkle at Sunstreaker, and they are definitely brighter than usual. From one overcharge to another.   
  
“Not much,” Sunstreaker grumbles, scooting over enough on the berth that Sideswipe could climb up beside him if he so wished. “Bits and pieces.”   
  
“Me, too.” Sideswipe lays his helm on his arm and reaches out, one hand stroking Sunstreaker's arm over and over and over, like he's fascinated by the simple motion. “But maybe we remember different bits and pieces and if we put 'em all together, we'll have a whole picture.”   
  
He suddenly sits up straight, a lightbulb turning on above his helm. “Like a puzzle!”   
  
…   
  
Yep. Definitely giving Hoist a talking to.   
  
“I don't think it works like that, Sides.”   
  
“But it could.” Sideswipe grins and suddenly clambers up onto the berth. “Swap cords with me. Give it a try.”   
  
“You're just overcharged and running hot,” Sunstreaker grumbles, but he rolls over, his hands finding his twin's pelvic arch.   
  
Sideswipe's smile turns wicked as he straddles Sunstreaker, his glossa running over his lower lip. “Guilty as charged. Ya gonna pass me a cable or not?”   
  
Curiosity wins over Sunstreaker's lingering high grade induced overcharge. He wants to know just what had happened with Ratchet last night. And if combining his and Sideswipe's scattered memories answer even half the questions, he'll consider this a success. Well, and the fact that interfacing Sideswipe is hardly a chore.   
  
Still, better not let the red-plated idiot recognize he had a good idea for once. He'll gloat about it for weeks.   
  
Sunstreaker reaches for his interface panel, slowly unspooling the cable. A smile tugs at his lips as Sideswipe watches him with hungry optics, shifting minutely atop Sunstreaker. His inner thigh plating rubs against Sunstreaker's hips, eliciting a light, crackling charge.   
  
“Easy now,” Sunstreaker says, holding his twin's gaze as he reaches for Sideswipe's interfacing panel, which has already been popped in eager anticipation. “There's a point to this remember?”   
  
Sideswipe shivers as Sunstreaker's cable clicks home, and eagerly unspools his own. “There's always a point.”  
  
A tingle dances down Sunstreaker's backstrut as Sideswipe plugs into his interface port as well, and the usual trickle of Sideswipe's emotions becomes a steady stream of nearly incomprehensible data.  
  
A small moan escapes Sideswipe, his optics shuttering as he reaches down, bracing his hands on Sunstreaker's chassis.   
  
Sunstreaker arches up, jostling his brother. “Focus, you glitch.”   
  
“Not as easy as it sounds, bro,” Sideswipe retorts with another visible shiver of his plating. “All right. Here's what I got.”   
  
The first of the images trickles across their connection. Sunstreaker groans, his processor suddenly assaulted by a deluge of sensation.   
  
_“Is that a challenge?” Ratchet's gruff vocals undermine the sparkle of invitation in his optics as he slides into the open seat at the table.  
  
Already sottted half-way to Sunday, Sideswipe grins and chugs down another half-cube. “Show us what ya got, Ratch.” _  
  
Sunstreaker's optics flicker as Sideswipe's hands start running over his plating, years of familiarity ensuring that he embraces every sweet spot. He struggles to focus himself, bundling up one of his own clearer memories and shipping it across the link.   
  
_Someone's pede is touching his own. Sunstreaker arches an orbital ridge. Really, Sideswipe? Footsie?  
  
He sneaks a glance under the table and sees an entirely white pede without a hint of black or red. Not Sideswipe. What the frag? **Ratchet**? _  
  
Sunstreaker cries out as Sideswipe grabs a motion cable and tugs, a sharp flick of pain shattering the pulse-pulse-pulse of pleasure and only serving to amp up the sensation. This isn't exactly what he had in mind when he said share their memories, but by Primus, he's not about to ask Sideswipe to stop.   
  
Not when the memories are coming faster and faster, disjointed and disconnected, Sunstreaker struggling to send as quickly as he's receiving.   
  
_Sideswipe is wobbling as he gets up from the table, optics bright. Sunstreaker's no better, his cooling fans struggling to dispel the extra heat from overcharge. And Ratchet is there, too, somehow, smirking at both of them.  
  
And then they are in the hallway, Ratchet's hands on Sunstreaker's plating, shoving him against the wall. Sunstreaker is moaning, helm hitting the wall as a skilled glossa attacks his neck cables. Sideswipe is next to both of them, his hands tracing paths of staticky charge over yellow and white plating.   
  
Then there's a berth and Sideswipe is bouncing on top of it. He's giggling of all things, reaching for Ratchet, pulling the medic down on top of him. Sunstreaker watches the both of them with hungry optics, listening to the sounds of their systems and their pleasure.   
  
Ratchet's looking up at him now, optics so very blue. “You just going to watch or are you going to participate?” he demands.   
  
And Sideswipe makes a sound that better resembles a needy whimper because Ratchet's not paying attention to him anymore. He arches up against the medic, wanting contact, and the sight of his twin so very needy makes something in Sunstreaker burst. _  
  
_He's clambering onto the berth without an ounce of grace, not sure where he even wants to start. He just knows he's hungry, starving, and what he wants is right here in front of him._  
  
“Oh, slag,” Sideswipe moans, twitching atop Sunstreaker, his fingers digging into Sunstreaker's seams. “That's so fragging hot.”   
  
Sunstreaker has no words. He can only nod in agreement, clutch his twin tighter, feeling his spark pulse and throb within him. The push of pleasure and memories across their connection continues, burying him.   
  
_Ratchet hooks a finger in his chassis, dragging him in for a heated kiss. Sunstreaker moans, reaching for the medic, listening to Sideswipe whine beneath both of them about being ignored and crushed._  
  
 _The temperature in the room has reached uncomfortable levels, their three cooling fans not nearly enough to dispel the heat. Static electricity dances between three different plating shades, igniting pleasure through Sunstreaker's sensory net._  
  
 _He grabs Ratchet's hand, wanting to put rumor to test and mouthing the tip of a long digit. His optics are focused on the medic, engine revving as Ratchet moans.  
  
Sideswipe's tired of being ignored. He reaches up, buries his hand in Ratchet's pelvic assembly, and strokes several sensory lines. The reaction is immediate, the medic arching with a loud cry of need.   
  
Sunstreaker's never seen anything more arousing in his entire life. _  
  
The crackle of overload shoves Sunstreaker out of the disjointed stream of memories, his entire frame writhing as pleasure streaks through his systems. Electricity dances from his plating, snapping at Sideswipe's, who's moaning as overload takes him, too.   
  
The transfer of files slows to a trickle, not that there's much left to send. Sunstreaker's given up all the bits and pieces he remembers, and Sideswipe's done, too.   
  
Sideswipe's the first one to reach for their cables with fingers that are noticeably shaky. He disconnects them gently, and then tips over onto the berth, a noisy exvent echoing in the room.   
  
“So that's what happened,” he says after a moment.   
  
Sunstreaker tips his helm back against the berth. Holy Primus. He has no words. None. Who would have known the old medic had it in him?   
  
“Slag,” Sideswipe adds, flopping over and poking Sunstreaker in a sideseam. “We've got to do that again.”   
  
Sunstreaker makes a disbelieving noise. “Really, Sides. You saw how overcharged Ratchet was. We got lucky.”   
  
“Says you.” Sideswipe pokes him again, just to be an annoying glitch obviously.   
  
Sunstreaker gives his twin a flat look. “Ratchet inviting us to his berth again is about as likely as Megatron and Thundercracker being bondmates.”   
  
A look of contemplation flashes over Sideswipe's faceplate, along with a flash of disgust at the unwelcome image. “You might have a point, bro. Harsh though.” He snuggles close, most of his earlier hyperactivity missing. Thank Primus.   
  
“Truth,” Sunstreaker corrects. “It was a one time thing. Better save the memory files because it's not happening again.”   
  
***


	6. The Game Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sideswipe exercises caution.

When he comes back to their shared quarters after a long day of patrolling in the wet and muck, with a whiny Tracks as his patrol partner, there's nothing Sideswipe wants more than a hot shower and to fall into his berth.  
  
He keys open the door, pulls the lights up to half-power and slogs through the accumulated mess on their floor toward the berth. He tips forward, landing faceplate first on the soft plush of the berth.  
  
Something taps against his arm.  
  
Sideswipe turns his helm, optics squinting at the innocent-looking box sitting on the berth. It's brown, cardboard he thinks, and there's a cheerful red bow wrapped around it. Also, there's a tag.  
  
He sits up, curious and excited. He can't think of a reason why anyone would be sending them a present. No human holidays. No Cybertronian holidays.  
  
Sideswipe reaches for the gift with visible glee only to stop, fingers hovering in mid-air.  
  
It is a well-known fact that Sideswipe occasionally likes to engage in prank wars. There are a few bots on this base who owe him one or a dozen. This could be a prank.  
  
He rises up on his pedes and then back down again, indecisive. He crouches down, moves around the box, inspects it from all angles. He turns up his audials; no sounds of possible bombs or explosively messy contents.  
  
Sideswipe frowns, bombarding the box with a few scans. They all come back clean. Nothing poisonous. Nothing explosive. It's not moving so there can't be anything living inside. His irrational fear of hamsters is still a closely guarded secret...  
  
Sideswipe straightens. He's a frontliner, fraggit. He's not going to be afraid of a box!  
  
He reaches for it again, turning the box with ridiculous care so that he can read the namecard attached to the happy bow.  
  
 _“For the two idiots in hopes that they'll keep themselves from being scrapped for a day so I can get some fragged rest. Enjoy.”_  
  
It's from Ratchet.  
  
Sideswipe's optics round and he takes a step back. His wariness snaps up another notch. The frag? Why would Ratchet send them anything?  
  
He's not sure he wants to open it. Sideswipe tentatively pokes the box. The cheerful bow jiggles.  
  
All right. Plan B.  
  
\--Uh, Sunny?--  
  
\--Don't fragging call me that!--  
  
Someone's in a slag poor mood today. --If I told you Ratchet sent us a gift today, would you believe me?--  
  
There's a long moment of silence before his twin responds, --What the frag are you talking about, Sideswipe?--  
  
\--There's a box on our berth from Ratchet.--  
  
A huff of annoyance and curiosity comes across their bond. --What's in it?--  
  
Sideswipe scratches at his faceplate. --I don't know.--  
  
\--You fraggin' glitch! Open the box!--  
  
Sideswipe glares at the gift. --No, duh, Sunstreaker. The thought never occurred to me. Oh yeah, except for the fact that it could be a trap! Or a prank! Or dangerous!-- He throws up his hands, though Sunstreaker can't see the gesture.  
  
\--Don't be a coward.--  
  
He is absolutely not a coward. Caution doesn't make him a coward! How many times has Prowl tried to knock that into his helm?  
  
\--Fine,-- Sideswipe snarls, snatching the box off the berth. --I'll open it.--  
  
Before he can convince himself otherwise, Sideswipe rips off the outer paper layer and throws the bow over his shoulder. The box has been sealed with a few strips of scotch tape, easy enough to snap. Sideswipe drags the edge of a finger over the tape.  
  
The four flaps of the lid pop up a fraction once freed from the tape. Nothing leaps out of the box to attack. Sideswipe's spark skips a pulse or two.  
  
\--Well?-- Sunstreaker prompts impatiently.  
  
Sideswipe ignores his twin for a moment. He carefully sets the box on the floor, peels back the four flaps, then circles around the box again. He peers into it, flicking on his headlights to illuminate the contents.  
  
Something red and round. Something flat and rectangular. And something cube-like and silver. Another hasty scan comes back negative for poisonous or explosive materials.  
  
Sideswipe, daring to be brave again, reaches into the package and pulls out the three items. He stares at them blankly.  
  
\--Sideswipe! What is it?-- Sunstreaker demands. --I swear to Primus that if I have to come down there...--  
  
\--A datapad,-- Sideswipe answers, rather perplexed. --A tin of that special wax you like. And for some reason, an apple.--  
  
For a long moment, nothing but silence buzzes across their connection.  
  
Sideswipe lets the quiet fester as he powers up the datapad, cycling through the listed documents. His jaw drops. There's nothing but detective mysteries and thrillers on here. Stuff like Sherlock Holmes and stories by John Grisham and other human writers. How Ratchet had gotten these books on the datapad baffles Sideswipe. He would have had to painstakingly scan each and every one, or at least convince Spike and Chip to help him.  
  
Whoa.  
  
\--An apple?-- Sunstreaker finally manages to splutter.  
  
\--Yeah.-- Sideswipe pauses as he flicks through the multitudes of novels on the nearly full datapad. --Uhh. Why would Ratchet send us presents?--  
  
\--How the frag should I know!--  
  
Sideswipe winces at the volume of his twin's reply. Sunstreaker is not being helpful at all. Someone must have scratched his paint or something. Luckily, they have a fresh new tin of his favorite wax now, certain to polish away that bad mood.  
  
\--We could ask him,-- Sideswipe suggests.  
  
A rough laugh echoes across their comm. --I'll leave that particular risk to you.-- Sunstreaker abruptly cuts off their connection, leaving Sideswipe alone in his contemplations.  
  
He honestly doesn't know what Ratchet's thinking. A present? Not a prank? And why the apple?  
  
Shaking his helm, Sideswipe decides it's in his best interest to – what's the human phrase, 'not look a gift in the mouth'? He grabs the datapad, throws himself on his berth, and opens the first file. Sherlock Holmes: Hound of the Baskervilles.  
  
Sweet.  
  
***


	7. Placing Blame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ratchet is not impotent and Wheeljack and Perceptor get the giggles.

“I blame you.”   
  
Perceptor nearly drops a test tube. He carefully sets down the slim vial and turns around, not surprised to find Ratchet standing in the doorway of his laboratory.   
  
“Good afternoon, Ratchet,” he says pleasantly. “You appear well-rested and fully energized today.”   
  
Ratchet points at Perceptor's faceplate, his expression one of accusal. “I. Blame. You.”   
  
“In regards to what?” Contrary to proper belief, Perceptor knows how to play dumb when the situation calls for it.   
  
Ratchet, however, isn't buying it. “You're not Jazz. That look isn't going to work for me.”   
  
Scrap. Busted.   
  
Time for another plan: distraction.   
  
“I hardly see why your decision to act upon an emotional impulse has anything to do with me,” Perceptor replies, though a wise, battle-ready part of him is slowly backing away from the irate medic and carefully putting a table between himself and sudden danger.   
  
Ratchet's armor fluffs and settles again, a clear indication of his growing ire. “If you hadn't polished some bearings and cornered Jazz, I wouldn't have been forced to meet my end of the deal,” Ratchet growls.   
  
Perceptor cycles his optics, looking at the medic. “Then you are experiencing regret?”   
  
Ratchet pauses in the midst of chasing Perceptor around the table, then scowls as he crosses his arms. “... No.”   
  
“Well then.” Perceptor smiles brightly, ignoring the warning flashes of danger his logic center is giving him. “I fail to see the problem.”   
  
Now, Ratchet is starting to look flustered. “It's the twins!” he says, with flailing arms, like that's all the excuse he needs.   
  
Strangely devious, Perceptor nods in commiseration. “Yes, I do believe they were the focus of the wager.” And now, for the cog in the gears. “Were they unskilled in the berth?”   
  
It's not often one gets to see Ratchet speechless. Perceptor takes a vid capture, just so he can share it with Jazz later, and watches as Ratchet splutters. More arm flailing occurs.   
  
“No! I--”  
  
“Oh!” Perceptor exclaims in sudden, fake understanding. “Perhaps you experienced some malfunction then? It's perfectly alright, Ratchet. Most older models suffer these issues sooner or later. It's nothing to be ashamed of.”   
  
Ratchet gapes. Literally. His jaw drops and he stares at Perceptor. “I didn't... You... I'm not impotent!” The last is shouted, the words echoing around the lab.   
  
Wheeljack chooses this moment to pop his helm into the room, looking about warily, though there's a hint of wicked glee in his optics. “Uh, Ratch? You wanna tone it down? You just sent the minibots scurrying for the hills.”   
  
Ratchet turns a frosty glare onto his best friend.   
  
“Oh, don't mind him,” Perceptor says, still with that fakely pleasant tone. “He's having interfacing difficulties.”   
  
Wheeljack's indicators flash a sympathetic gold. “That would put anyone in a foul mood. What's the problem? Couldn't work up a charge?”  
  
Perceptor can always trust Wheeljack to want in on a good joke. Especially at Ratchet's expense.   
  
Ratchet's faceplate flushes with heat. His hands ball into fists. His optics blaze with anger. He's so speechless he's spitting static at them.   
  
And then, he draws up straight, tilts his helm, and whirls on a pede, stomping from the lab. Not so much as a threat or a curse or a splutter. Trying, Perceptor supposes, to keep his dignity intact.   
  
It's not until the storm of Ratchet righteousness is completely gone from the lab that Perceptor and Wheeljack dissolve into juvenile giggles.   
  
“You're terrible,” Wheeljack says, his indicators flashing a myriad of shades.   
  
Perceptor leans heavily against his table. “He shouldn't blame his indecisiveness on me.”   
  
“Aw, that's just how Ratch is. He doesn't like to admit... well, anything.” Wheeljack levers himself up off the floor where he'd let himself sink. “I should probably go after him. Make sure he's not leaving rampant chaos in his wake.”   
  
“Yes. Save the minibots,” Perceptor calls after the engineer.   
  
Another laugh, more like a giggle actually, bubbles up from Wheeljack before he, too, is gone. Perceptor is once again left alone in his laboratory. He consults his chronometer. Less than five minutes had passed.   
  
Distractions, distractions.   
  
He turns back to his experiment in progress with a tiny frown. His chain of thought has been completely severed. He reaches for the beakers of chemicals, scanning them to identify their current configuration.   
  
“What's this I hear about bein' cornered?”   
  
This time, Perceptor does drop one of the test tubes. It shatters on the floor, spilling out a pale liquid everywhere. Luckily, it's nothing particularly dangerous, but still!  
  
He whirls. “Jazz!”   
  
Said mech grins, languid and completely at ease as he reclines in a chair. How and when he'd entered Perceptor's lab will probably remain a mystery forever. Actually, knowing Jazz, Perceptor assumes he's been here all along.   
  
“Should probably clean that up,” Jazz replies with his usual lazy drawl. “Might be toxic, ya know.”   
  
“It's not,” Perceptor huffs, heat flooding his faceplates. “Why must you insist on startling me?”   
  
“Because it's fun?”   
  
“You should consider redefining your idea of entertainment.” Perceptor turns back around, hunting for a cleaning rag of some kind.   
  
“And ya could stand ta have a little more.” There's a noticeable pause, Jazz's tone taking on a note of seriousness. “Or is that what sharin' my berth was 'bout? A night of fun?”   
  
Perceptor abandons his search, a queer sensation in his spark, a mix of terror and longing and dread and anticipation. “You think I am the sort to berth hop, casual as I please?”   
  
“Lot of mechs are.”   
  
“Well, I'm not.” Perceptor bristles, though he's not sure why, and turns to face the saboteur, who's looking as serious as Perceptor has ever seen him.   
  
Come to think of it, Jazz's expression closely resembles the one he'd bore the night Perceptor had kissed him out of the blue and then subsequently dragged Jazz to the nearest berth. Oh, the high grade and the bet had given him courage, but he'd still been shaking in his transistors.  
  
Jazz tilts his helm, his arms braced along the edge of the table. “By the way ya crept out of the berth, I couldn't help but wonder.”   
  
Shame colors Perceptor's faceplate and he buries himself in his hands. “I apologize,” he says, voice muffled by his hands. “That was incredibly disgraceful of me.”   
  
“I'm a forgivin' mech,” Jazz replies, and then there's a gentle touch on Perceptor's hands, pulling them away from his face. “Provided I get an explanation or three. Mebbe a confession?”   
  
A confession? How very human-like of him to think so.   
  
Nevertheless, Perceptor's spark performs a little happy-skip within his chassis. “I have had an interest in you for quite some time, Jazz,” he admits, much to his own mortification. “Though only recently did I work up the spirit to actually approach you.”   
  
“Yeah, I heard. Somethin' bout a bet.” Jazz grins, his visor lighting up with a cheerful flash of blue. “So if I said, Perceptor, why don't you come to the rec room and join me fer a cube, what would ya say?”  
  
“I've already refueled,” he answers honestly, but a smile curls his lips. “But I would enjoy the socialization.”   
  
Jazz looks at him for a long moment before he bursts into laughter, fingers squeezing around Perceptor's. “Fine. I'll drink and ya can talk.”   
  
“It's a date.”   
  
***


	8. Poking Hatchets with Sticks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wheeljack likes to stir up trouble. Prowl is amused. Ratchet's not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place directly after Placing Blame, the previous chapter.

****  
Ratchet moves awfully quick when he's angry.  
  
He's out of sight by the time Wheeljack leaves Perceptor's lab, with only a stream of devastation in his wake. Mostly in the form of a few minibots who had the misfortune of walking in the hall when Ratchet passed.   
  
He'd bowled through them as though they weren't there.   
  
Brawn had a fist raised, like he was halfway considering getting some revenge, but hesitated. Wise mech. One does not rile the Hatchet and live to tell the tale.   
  
Though, Wheeljack smirks, that's exactly what he's planning to do.   
  
He has a fair idea of where Ratchet is going, and his suspicions are confirmed when he approaches the medbay, only for First Aid to come barreling out, his visor flashing with a harried look.   
  
“I think Ratchet needs to be alone,” First Aid says, making no attempt to hide that he's trying to put as much distance between himself and his irascible mentor as possible. “He's... uh...” First Aid wrung his fingers together, at a loss for words.   
  
Sympathetic, Wheeljack lays a calming hand on the Protectobot's shoulder “Don't worry, kid. I'll take care of it.”  
  
First Aid looks ridiculously relieved. “Thanks.”   
  
“No problem.”   
  
Wheeljack grins and watches First Aid go, the young mech wandering with a bit of a dazed look in his visor.   
  
Girding his metaphorical loins, Wheeljack enters the dragon's den.   
  
There's no shouting, no airborne pieces of equipment, but the energy field that slams Wheeljack in the face makes him glad for his mask. It's not vile, per se, but it is strong and frustrated.   
  
Ratchet is in the midst of furiously scrubbing down a medberth as though it has offended him in some manner. And it probably has. This particular medberth is the one that's been given the dubious honor of the nickname the Lamborghini Motel, due to the fact it's usual occupants are Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, or Red Alert.   
  
“You don't do anything by halves, do you?” Wheeljack says.   
  
Ratchet's helm whips toward him with a glare so fierce it could be made of lasers. He says nothing, however, concentrating on scrubbing the berth again, the stench of cleanser thick in the air.   
  
Hmm. Must poke him a bit harder.   
  
“Are you really having interfacing difficulties?” Wheeljack asks. “Wrenched cables perhaps? Dented ports? Fried circuits?”   
  
Ratchet growls. “Wheeljack, so help me Primus, if you don't shut the frag up...”  
  
Wheeljack laughs. “You're cute when you're angry. And embarrassed.”   
  
“Laugh it up. Just like everyone else.”   
  
“Is that what's grinding your gears?” Wheeljack rolls his optics. “You know how rumors are around here. The gossip mill's self-sustaining! Bots talk. It's a fact of life.”   
  
“Oh yeah?” Ratchet throws down his rag, turning toward Wheeljack with a devilish sparkle in his optics. “Tell me, Jack. How's Prowl doing these days?”   
  
Oh dear. He's woken the devious side of Ratchet.   
  
Nevertheless, Wheeljack plasters an innocent look over himself. “Far less stressed as far as I can tell.” His smirk is luckily hidden behind his facemask. “Several good overloads'll do that for a mech.”   
  
Ratchet huffs, folding his arms. “You're no fun to tease.”   
  
“That's because I have no shame,” Wheeljack says cheerfully and strides further into the room. “You, on the other hand, can be quite the prude.”   
  
“I am not!”   
  
“Are so.” Wheeljack glances at Ratchet from the corner of his optics. “Otherwise you wouldn't be trying to blame every mech and their brother for seducing the twins. Is it that fragging hard to admit you wanted them?”   
  
Indecision wars on Ratchet's faceplate, obvious to anymech who knows him well enough to look for it. And Wheeljack's known Ratchet for most of his life. He can read Ratchet like an open datapad.   
  
He shakes his helm, pulling up a seat on a nearby berth. “Mech, look at you. Terrified of your own feelings. I honestly don't know what to say.”   
  
“I don't have feelings,” Ratchet retorts, on the edge of a snarl. “My spark's as black as the Pit.”   
  
Whoa. Defensive much?   
  
Wheeljack sighs, resting his chin on his hand. “C'mon, Ratch. You and I both know that's not true.”   
  
A long, tense silence whips through the room before Ratchet rolls his optics. “Quit being so logical. That's Prowl's department.”   
  
Wheeljack shutters one optic in semblance of a wink. “Well, ya know what they say about mates taking on the characteristics of each other.”   
  
“You two did not mate.”   
  
“Nope. But in the future, who knows?” Wheeljack shrugs. “But we're not talkin' about me and Prowl. We're talking about you and those sexy-aft Lamborghinis. C'mon, Ratch. Curious processors gotta know.”   
  
Ratchet unfolds his arms, giving Wheeljack a wry look. “I'm not giving you details. Or asking for help. Ironhide's already offered his services.”   
  
“Oh?” Wheeljack perks. “What kind of services?”   
  
“I'm not telling you either, you nosy busybody!” Ratchet says and rushes toward Wheeljack, grabbing him by the shoulders and bodily tugging him off the table. “Now see here, I've got work to do and I'm sure you do, too. So scat!”   
  
He whirls Wheeljack around and gives him a not-subtle push toward the door, nearly making the poor engineer tumble helm over pedes.   
  
Wheeljack digs in with his heels, his arms shooting out and hands catching the frame of the door, stopping Ratchet's forced eviction. “I want to help, too! C'mon. Can't you trust this face?”   
  
“Not one iota!” Ratchet's growl, more amused now than angry, is accompanied by the sudden cessation of his hands on Wheeljack's shoulders.   
  
Except that's also when he rams his massive shoulder into Wheeljack's back, right between the separated wings of his spoiler. A sensitive spot, as Ratchet would know.   
  
Wheeljack yelps and arches forward, spontaneously leaping away from the source of irritation. “Ratchet!” He whirls but the medbay door slams closed with a trio of beeps that indicates it's been locked. Triply.   
  
Only Prowl, Jazz, Red Alert, or Prime could get in now. And Wheeljack doubts any of them will be interested in him making googly optics so he can torment his best friend some more.   
  
Wheeljack crosses his arms, glaring at the door. “You can't hide from me forever!” he hollers, knowing Ratchet can hear him since his bestest buddy in the whole world has also blocked his private comm.   
  
“Am I missing something?”   
  
Wheeljack jumps about four feet in the air, his spark leaping in his chassis. “Prowl! Make some noise, Primus Allmighty!”   
  
His brand new partner grins wryly. “And lose the element of surprise? Something I rely upon to catch errant Autobots and underhanded Decepticons?”  
  
Wheeljack shakes his helm, patting the air with one hand. “Yes, yes. We've all heard the tale of how you were granted your designation.” He peers at his partner. “Exactly how long have you been lurking out here?”  
  
“I do not lurk,” Prowl retorts, raising both orbital ridges. “I have a legitimate reason to be here.” He holds up a hand, bearing a datapad. “I need Ratchet to sign off on these supply requisitions.”   
  
Wheeljack laughs. “I think you're making that up.”   
  
“I would not,” Prowl says, with affront, though there's a curve to his lipplates that imply otherwise.   
  
Wheeljack gestures to the locked medbay. “Then by all means, confront the Hatchet in his lair for some paperwork. He's breathing fire right about now.”   
  
Prowl's legendary composure finally cracks and he chuckles. “I doubt that I have anything to fear. Unlike a certain mech I know.”   
  
Wheeljack grins behind his mouthplate and presses closer to his partner, indicators flickering. “I can't help that Ratchet doesn't appreciate my good intentions.”   
  
“There's a reason everyone on base thinks you have a death wish,” Prowl retorts dryly, though his doorwings give a flicker of interest that he just can't hide. “And it's not based on the number of failed experiments.”   
  
Wheeljack nuzzles against Prowl's helm, feeling his partner's energy field buzz with affection. His facemask slides aside, glossa slipping out to tease a sensitive audial. “Those weren't failures. They were successful ways that the process did not work.”   
  
“However you wish to claim it,” Prowl concedes, turning his helm to meet Wheeljack's optics. “Seducing me is not going to distract me from obtaining this signature either.”   
  
Wheeljack chuckles. “I'm trying to protect you. Ratchet's in a limb-removal mood and I rather like your limbs. All of them.” One hand creeps up behind Prowl, brushing between his door wings where strong metal is laden with sensors. “So is it working?”   
  
Prowl takes a long step away from Wheeljack, putting some distance between them, resetting his vocalizer with an audible click. His doorwings visibly twitch. “My shift ends in an hour.”   
  
Oh, yeah. It's working.   
  
“I have some purloined high grade we can share,” Wheeljack suggests, tucking his hands behind his back, lest his wandering fingers continue to fulfill their incessant need to explore Prowl's shiny frame.   
  
Prowl inclines his helm, already punching his codes into the override panel for the medbay. “I shall meet you afterward then.”   
  
“I'll be waiting.” Wheeljack slides his facemask closed, to hide what must be an absolutely goofy expression.   
  
He then takes his leave because the door to the medbay is opening and Prowl, a braver mech than Wheeljack, is striding inside with purpose.   
  
Good luck.   
  
* * *


	9. Special Delivery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only Ratchet can silence a room by simply walking into it.

“So then I said, that's not _my_ spoiler!”   
  
Laughter rises up from around the table in a raucous round of hilarious approval. Even Sunstreaker manages a snicker or two, though he heard this joke probably a few thousand times over the eons.   
  
Sideswipe grins, snagging his energon and knocking back half of it in one gulp. He's in his element right now, surrounded by friends and relaxing with none of the confusion about Ratchet to so much as rattle him.   
  
Nope. Right now Ratchet and his strange gift and equally strange behavior are far, far from Sideswipe's processor.   
  
Mostly.   
  
“Sideswipe, my mech, you are one screwy bot,” Smokescreen says, clapping him on the shoulder in obvious encouragement.   
  
Sideswipe chuckles. “Anything else would be boring,” he points out and leans closer to the tactician, voice lowering conspiratorially. “Did I ever tell you about the time I got stuck behind enemy lines?”   
  
He waits for more laughter, for his friends to eagerly prod him for details. Instead, the lingering amusement from before trickles off into quiet. In fact, the whole rec room has gone disturbingly silent.   
  
Sideswipe's backstrut tingles. His superior-officer-sense is acting up.   
  
“No,” says a very familiar voice from behind Sideswipe. “Care to share it?”   
  
Only Ratchet can walk into a room and make everybot clamp their mouthplates shut. Oh, he can be the life of the party when he wants, but when Ratchet has that look in his optics, mechs clam up faster than Starscream faced with a fusion cannon.   
  
Not even Prowl has managed this feat of fear yet.   
  
“Uhh. Hi, Ratchet,” Sideswipe says as the medic circles around the table so that they are now face to face.   
  
Sideswipe feels not unlike a feral turbofox being tracked by an eager Towers mech.   
  
Ratchet grunts a semi-greeting, nothing in his faceplate reflecting charm or so much as a drop of cheerfulness. In other words, classic Ratchet. “I'm not here to chat.”   
  
Uh oh.   
  
Sunstreaker takes this moment to elbow Sideswipe in the side, pinching a coolant line in the process. He also starts hammering at their link but Sideswipe needs every kernel of his processing power right now if he hopes to come out of this alive. Whatever this is.   
  
“Refueling then?” he asks hopefully, optics wide and bright and full of innocence.   
  
“Not quite,” Ratchet replies, optics skittering over the crew gathered at the table, all of whom are looking everywhere but at Ratchet as if imagining how to sink through the floor and the volcano and out to freedom on the other side.   
  
Bluestreak hasn't stopped twitching yet. Poor mech's gonna make himself crash if he doesn't relax.   
  
Sideswipe feels a twitch of his own coming on. “Whatever it was, I didn't do it.”   
  
Sunstreaker scoffs beside him. “Way to sound innocent, bro.”   
  
“Sideswipe hasn't been innocent since the orn he was sparked,” Ratchet retorts in a dry tone.   
  
Uneasy chuckling echoes around the table.   
  
Still, Ratchet doesn't offer an explanation. Not that he really needs one to come to the rec room, but seriously, he's freaking everyone out.   
  
Just standing there. Looming. His paint all bright and shiny, gleaming. Making Sideswipe's fingers twitch with the urge to touch. To shove him down to a berth and drag his glossa over every nook and cranny until Ratchet overloads screaming....  
  
Oh yeah. He's not been thinking about Ratchet at all.   
  
“So you're not here to chat,” Sideswipe ventures when Smokescreen finally nudges him with a knee. “Or refuel...”   
  
“Then no offense Ratchet, but why are you here?” Tracks asks, clearly the bravest of the bunch. But then, he doesn't spend nearly as much time in the medbay as Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.   
  
Six pairs of optics focus on the irascible medic.   
  
Ratchet invents loudly and raises his chin. “I came to deliver this,” he says and produces a wrapped package from his subspace, the cheerful ribbon curled around it the same shade as the present Sideswipe had opened earlier this week.   
  
He puts it on the table, leaning between Trailbreaker and Bluestreak (who not-so-subtly edge away from the temperamental medic), and pushes it across the table toward the twins. It comes to a stop between them, looking innocuous and enticing in its brown paper wrapping.   
  
“And also, to say that I expect an answer by the end of my shift,” Ratchet adds while everyone stares at the box. “Have a good day.”   
  
Ratchet turns with enormous dignity and flees the scene.   
  
Sideswipe gapes, jaw dropped and everything, like some bad comedy parody or something.   
  
“What is it?” Bluestreak asks eagerly, one hand smoothing down his armor where it had fluffed up out of pure self-defense. “C'mon. Open it! I wanna know. C'mon, Sideswipe! Please.”   
  
It's pretty fragging hard to say no to Bluestreak when he looks at you like that. All bright optics and eager grin and fluttering doorwings and perfect pitch of his vocalizer that gets right to your spark...   
  
Sidewipe laughs. “Calm down, Bluestreak.” He reaches out, touches the box with one finger and nudges it toward his twin. “Your turn, bro.”   
  
“Throw me under the bus why don't you?” Sunstreaker mutters but he takes the box anyway. He doesn't manage to hide the eager trill in his energy field either.   
  
Sideswipe smirks behind his hand. Oh, Sunny. You are so predictable.   
  
He – and everyone else at their table plus a few curious bots in the tables surrounding them – watch as Sunstreaker carefully unties the ribbon, and peels back the brown wrapping paper. Sunstreaker is cautious, as Sideswipe had been last week, as though expecting the box to suddenly explode.   
  
Sideswipe's on bolts and brackets, waiting with even his vents stilled, as Sunstreaker reaches into the box...   
  
“Yeargh!” his twin hollers, loud enough that every bot at their table and the next one over startle in surprise.   
  
Sideswipe leaps to his feet. “Sunny!” His spark's hammering his chamber as he reaches and--   
  
That fragger.   
  
Sunstreaker is grinning up at him and Sideswipe just wants to strangle him right now. Sunny's half his spark so would that be a crime? Really?   
  
“Gotcha.”   
  
Sideswipe doesn't hold back, just slugs his brother on the shoulder as hard as he can, leaving a dent behind that Sunstreaker is sure to bitch about later.   
  
“You glitch!”   
  
“And I thought Sideswipe was the prank master,” Tracks murmurs, sharing a snicker with Bluestreak.   
  
Sunstreaker chuckles, resting his hand on the lip of the box. “Did you really think Ratchet would hurt us?”   
  
Well, to be honest...  
  
“Come on!” Trailbreaker insists, leaning over the table. “Just tell us what's in the box!”   
  
Sunstreaker obeys, drawing out a handful of small silver objects and dumping them on the table with a noisy clatter. Several skitter onto the floor.   
  
“What are those?” Smokescreen asks, picking up one of the tiny items and bringing it closer to his optics, which cycle down to examine it.   
  
“I think they're called thimbles,” Trailbreaker replies, flicking one across the table with a finger. “I saw Carly use one once.”   
  
“Why would Ratchet give you thimbles?” Tracks asks.   
  
A very good question.   
  
Sideswipe leans over. “Is there anything else in the box?”  
  
He reaches in, pulling out a datapad, some kind of engine part, an image frame, and a cube of high grade in a rich, magenta hue.   
  
Sideswipe ignores the rest, examining the engine part closely. Recognition dawns and his optics light up. “I know what this is! It's an upgrade for my jetpack.”   
  
He'd been begging Prowl for months to allow him to get the upgrade, and nagging Ratchet to install it and whining to Prime about needing it.   
  
“What did you get?” Bluestreak asks Sunstreaker.   
  
Sunstreaker tilts his helm thoughtfully. “Pictures.” And not just any pictures either. The frame in his hands keeps cycling through over a dozen of images that represent some of the greatest artistic minds on Cybertron.   
  
“What about the datapad?” Trailbreaker asks.   
  
Sideswipe tucks the upgrade into his subspace and grabs the datapad, powering it on. There's nothing on it but a single document which he scans quickly.   
  
His optics widen.   
  
“It's an invitation.”   
  
“For what?” Smokescreen pokes him in the side, right between two armor plates that make Sideswipe squirm.   
  
“To install the upgrade and then go for a drive.” Sideswipe's too shocked to even think about keeping this private. It's a little difficult to believe.   
  
What the frag is Ratchet thinking?   
  
Sunstreaker snatches the datapad from Sideswipe's hand, reading the note for himself. “In the presence of a guardian? What the frag does that mean?”   
  
Tracks starts guffawing loud enough to attract the attention of every bot in the rec room.   
  
Sunstreaker frowns. “What's so funny?”   
  
He's starting to get annoyed. Sideswipe can feel it. Not good.   
  
Tracks is practically shaking with mirth. “Oh. You'll find out soon enough. I guess this answers the question of how old the doc-bot is.”   
  
Sideswipe arches an orbital ridge. “I don't get it.”   
  
“You will.” Tracks points at the datapad. “Are you going to accept?”   
  
Sideswipe trades a glance with his brother.   
  
\--You want to?-- Sunstreaker asks over a private, narrow-band comm.   
  
\--I want that upgrade,-- Sideswipe replies in kind, and pauses to consider. --And I'm curious as all Pit.--  
  
\--Same here.--  
  
\--So we agree?--  
  
Sunstreaker picks up the high grade, admiring the delicate hue of it. “Yeah, let's do it.”  
  


***


	10. Permission Granted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus feels like he's running a daycare and Ratchet is his most troublesome toddler.

Sometimes, Optimus Prime feels like he's running a daycare rather than overseeing a military unit. Granted eighty percent of his so-called military is comprised of former civilians. But they could still act like adults as opposed to unruly sparklings.   
  
Worse that he's still wading through the aftermath of Ratchet's unexpected party.   
  
Mechs who showed up late for their shifts or not at all, forcing him to dole out citations, punishments, and brig-time for a select few.   
  
Skyfire moping around like someone's torn off his wings and stomped on his spark for good measure.   
  
An explosion in Lab E which has been blamed, in part, on Jazz being an effective distraction. Whatever the scrap that's supposed to mean.   
  
No one's fessing up to distilling the high grade though Optimus has his suspicions. The designation starts with Side and rhymes with gripe.   
  
Wheeljack left his lab unlocked. Again.   
  
Some mech had taken advantage of Wheeljack's forgetful nature and had gotten a hold of the engineer's superfoam, pinning a spitting-fire Cliffjumper beneath gallons of the constrictive liquid-turned-solid.   
  
And where is Prime's best investigative officer during all this mess?   
  
Unavailable at this time according to the repeated message on Prowl's personal comm.   
  
To top it all, Ratchet is apparently rampaging around the base, terrorizing minibots and Aerialbots alike.   
  
And speak of Unicron...  
  
“Can I help you?” Optimus asks, not really in a mood to deal with any more nonsense this week.   
  
His command staff has gone utterly bonkers. His scientists have lost their processors, and really, Optimus has had quite enough.   
  
“My aren't you in a mood.” Ratchet helps himself to a chair, sitting upon it with great heaviness.   
  
“What's the human phrase regarding a black kettle?”   
  
Ratchet arches one optical ridge. “Something tells me you could use a good overload or six.”   
  
Optimus sets down his stylus with a purposefully noisy click. “Is that your medical opinion?”   
  
Tread lightly, Ratchet. Optimus is a hair-trigger away from throwing half his crew in the brig just for some peace and quiet.   
  
“Do you want it to be?”   
  
Optimus stares, his battle mask hiding the unamused set of his mouthplates. “Ratchet, I am quite busy. We can trade witty repartee later. Is there a reason you came to visit?”   
  
His undefeatable, short-tempered, and completely confident chief medical officer fidgets visibly. “I need your permission.”   
  
Optimus wavers between exasperation and curiosity. “Go on.”   
  
Ratchet twitches, optics dropping briefly to the desk before raising them again. “I wish to court Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.”   
  
Optimus reboots his audials. “... Come again?”   
  
A scowl twists Ratchet's faceplate. “You heard me.”   
  
Optimus leans back in his chair – the comfortable one he stole from Jazz's office some time ago. It's not like Jazz ever uses his office anyway. “I thought I heard wrong. Exactly why do you need my permission?”  
  
“Because it's tradition.”   
  
“I don't recall it being a Prime's duty to sanction all courtships.”   
  
Ratchet gives him a long, flat look. “Their creators are gone. Dead. Who knows. So I came to you. Their commanding officer.”   
  
“Technically...”   
  
“Ironhide is my accomplice,” Ratchet interrupts with a long, aggravated exvent. “He can't count. Conflict of interest.”   
  
Accomplice? How does Ratchet keep suborning Optimus' command staff?   
  
He raps his fingers across his desktop, honestly lacking the words to respond. Cybertronian, English, or otherwise.   
  
“Will it fix your recent behavior?” Optimus finally settles for a query.   
  
In other words, will his permission stop Ratchet's foul-tempered rampaging through the base.  
  
Ratchet has the decency to look embarrassed. One pede toes the floor, the other makes him swivel back and forth in the chair.   
  
“It... should.”   
  
Optimus realizes that Ratchet is uncertain. Afraid even.   
  
And Ratchet's usual response to his fear is to be loud, brash, and angry.   
  
Suddenly, it all makes sense.   
  
Optimus palms his face, battle mask sliding aside.   
  
No, he's not running a daycare. He's principal of a fragging high school.   
  
“Is there some ritualistic phrasing I need to use?”   
  
Ratchet's mouthplates quirk into a grin. “Not really. I just need to satisfy my coding.”   
  
“Fine.” Optimus waves a hand at his chief medical officer. “You have my permission. Need it in writing?”   
  
“No sir.” Ratchet's helm dips, self-abashed. “Thank you.”   
  
“I'd say anytime but I hope that the madness is going to end sooner rather than later.” Optimus picks up his stylus again, dragging his datapad closer.   
  
“I'll do my best.”   
  
“See that you do.”   
  
Ratchet levers himself out of the chair, turning toward the open doorway.  
  
“And Ratchet?”   
  
The medic pauses, half-turned toward his Prime.   
  
“Good luck.”   
  
He honestly means it, too. Ratchet's going to need all the luck he can get if he hopes to rope in those two mechs.   
  
Ratchet nods and takes his leave.   
  
Optimus returns to his paperwork. Sadly, the only thing that currently makes sense in his world right now.


	11. Distractions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: WheeljackxProwl, Optimus Prime  
> Description: Wheeljack is a new temptation Prowl doesn't want to resist.   
> Set sometime between Poking Dragons with Sticks and Permission Granted.

“I see you survived. With all limbs intact even.”  
  
Prowl pauses as the familiar vocals trail after him the very moment he steps out of the medbay. He turns, spotting Wheeljack lurking just around the corner. Coward.  
  
“Ratchet is not a fan of creating more work for himself,” Prowl replies, a smile curving his lips. “Nor do I make a habit of provoking him.”  
  
Wheeljack laughs, his indicators lighting up an array of colors, reflecting his amusement. “You should. It's quite fun.”  
  
Prowl turns back toward his office, Wheeljack falling into step beside him. “I'm beginning to suspect you have a penchant for both danger and pain.”  
  
“Are you calling me a masochist?”  
  
Prowl's doorwings twitch. “If the cog fits...”  
  
Wheeljack bumps shoulders with him. “You've been spending far too much time listening to Bluestreak babble.”  
  
Prowl arches an orbital ridge, shooting his lover a look. “And you're avoiding my observation.”  
  
Wheeljack skips ahead of him, drawing to a halt and forcing Prowl to stop as well. “Maybe it's not my kinks I'm interested in,” the engineer says, leaning one arm against the wall and effectively blocking Prowl's path. “Maybe I want to know what makes your spark surge.”  
  
“Ever the scientist.”  
  
“Mmm. I do have theories.”  
  
Prowl's lips twitch but he conceals his amusement carefully, tucking away his datapad so that his hands are free. “Such as?”  
  
Wheeljack's gaze shifts past his helm, to the doorwings at his shoulders. “Those for one. Word around the Ark is that they're quite sensitive.”  
  
Any other mech would have been offended. Prowl, however, knows just how overcharged Wheeljack had been that night. “You don't remember?”  
  
“I didn't get to explore like I wanted.”  
  
A thread of mischief begins to wind its way through Prowl's spark. He inclines his helm, twitching first one doorwing, then the other, noticing how Wheeljack's optics follow the minor movement. “Now's your chance.”  
  
A bubble of laughter echoes in the engineer's chassis. He leans closer, increasing the sensation of being cornered, though they are of height. “Tempter.”  
  
Prowl glances to the connecting hallway, one that leads away from the command offices and straight to the officer's barracks. “You have somewhere better to be?”  
  
Technically, he's off-duty right now. Just because he can usually be found working in his office long after his shift has ended doesn't mean he needs to follow that pattern tonight. It's about time he started indulging in some of that down time Ratchet's been trying to convince him to take.  
  
Wheeljack's indicators glow a deep, inviting blue. “Not for all the uranium in the world,” he says, leaning closer, mask nuzzling against the side of Prowl's neck.  
  
Their energy fields brushed together, Wheeljack's hot and heavy with charge, Prowl's own frazzled and intrigued. He's got years and years of overloads stored up, stress making his systems eager to dispel the extra charge.  
  
“Are you eager to feed the rumor mill or can you wait until we get to my quarters?” Prowl asks, and surprises himself with the husky nature of his vocals.  
  
Wheeljack chuckles, fingers brushing over Prowl's side, where an interface panel hides beneath the curve of his armor. “I don't know. It might be interestin' to see what happens if someone else catches us.”  
  
“Exhibitionist?” Prowl asks, making his panel twitch beneath Wheeljack's fingers, as though he's having difficult keeping it closed.  
  
“Something like that.” Wheeljack's mask presses harder against his neck cables, vocalizations creating a light buzz. Their frames are in direct contact now, from chestplate to abdominal array. “Maybe I just like to see circuits snap.”  
  
“Imagine the work that would create for Ratchet.”  
  
Wheeljack laughs again. “It would be worth the wrench to the helm.” Charge zaps from his fingers straight against Prowl's port, making him judder and the panel pop right open. “Want to be daring?”  
  
Prowl's cooling fans kick on with a telling whuff, sucking air into his overheated frame, his energy field rising and crashing down on the teasing engineer. “You are going to be the end of me.”  
  
“That wasn't a no.”  
  
It's Prowl's turn to laugh, though it's a quiet bubble from his vocalizer. He works an arm behind the engineer, fingers exploring, finding the base of those winglets and stroking them accordingly.  
  
A full frame shudder spreads across Wheeljack, his energy field spiking. “Ohhh. I'm startin' to think the only circuits you want to see blown are your own.”  
  
“Whatever gave you that idea?” Prowl asks, gathering charge at the tips of his fingers and plunging them into the gap at Wheeljack's dorsal armor, sparking across rarely touched sensors.  
  
The engineer arches, pressing hard against him, pleasure flooding his energy field. “So not going to make it to your quarters. I'm about to take you here, hard and fast, against this wall. Give Red Alert a real show.”  
  
Prowl smirks. “What makes you think he won't enjoy it?”  
  
Wheeljack laughs, ex-vents washing heated air over Prowl's armor. “You know what they say about the quiet ones...?”  
  
“They eventually find themselves in the brig for inappropriate displays of affection?”  
  
Prowl jerks at the unexpected voice and both he and Wheeljack startle, whirling to find Optimus Prime standing there, giving them a look that somehow mixed amusement and impatience. As though their leader doesn't quite know what to think or how to respond to it.  
  
Wheeljack stammers.  
  
Prowl recovers himself smoothly. “Excuse us, sir,” he says, grabbing Wheeljack's hand and giving it a firm tug. “We were just on our way to the rec room.”  
  
“Sure you were.” Prowl is sure that Prime is laughing at both of them behind that battle mask. “By all means, don't let me keep you.”  
  
It is with enormous dignity that Prowl pulls Wheeljack along with him, helm held high as he walks past their Prime and around the curve of the hallway. Only then does Prowl hang a left, intending to double-back toward his quarters. The charge built in his circuits would not be denied.  
  
Wheeljack, however, is still shaking.  
  
And it isn't until the engineer suddenly bursts into laughter that Prowl realizes it isn't out of anxiety.  
  
“Oh, the look on his face!” Wheeljack gasps out, fingers squeezing Prowl's as amusement rippled through his energy field. “Poor Prime.”  
  
Prowl's lips twitch. “You succeeded in your goals. I do believe you may have fried a circuit or two.”  
  
Wheeljack sends a burst of charge through their clasped hands. “Give me a chance and I'll fry half a dozen more,” he purrs.  
  
Prowl shivers, more than a little relieved when the door to his quarters comes into view. “Challenge accepted,” he declares, keying the door open.  
  
The engineer's vocal indicators flash brightly at him before Prowl drags Wheeljack inside, door slamming shut with a click of the lock.  
  
At least they're out of the hall now.  
  


***


	12. First Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet and the twins have their first date. Ironhide supervises.

“There,” Sideswipe hears from behind him, along with a subtle click, though he doesn't feel much of anything thanks to the sensor block. “How does that feel?”   
  
He chuckles and wonders if anyone else is catching the uneasy tremor to his voice. “Numb?” he hazards.   
  
Ratchet's energy field teases at his own, echoing amusement mixed with exasperation. He does something else, there's another click, and then sensation floods through Sideswipe's sensory net. His HUD runs a diagnostic and immediately locates the new hardware, integrating it into his systems.   
  
Sideswipe rolls his shoulders experimentally.   
  
“What about now?” Ratchet asks.   
  
He rolls his neck cables, too. In fact, Sideswipe flexes his entire upper torso, feeling the linkages for his jet pack shift with him. They don't feel as stiff as they used to, and they are definitely lighter. There's not as much of a draw on his power systems either.   
  
It's gotta be twice as efficient now.   
  
“It's great,” Sideswipe says, unable to help his enthusiastic grin. He winks one optic at Sunstreaker, who's standing across from him with arms folded across his chestplate. “Those Seekers aren't gonna know what to do with me.”   
  
Ratchet's palm hits him square in the middle of his backplate. “If you could refrain from riding Seekers for at least two weeks, you won't end up in my medbay.”   
  
But what if that's where Sideswipe wants to be?   
  
He grins cheekily, fluttering the armor across his back. “Whatever ya say, Ratch.”   
  
“And don't call me that.”   
  
Sunstreaker huffs a ventilation. “Good luck with that,” he says, rolling his optics. “I'm still training him to call mechs their proper designations.”   
  
“It's how I show I care,” Sideswipe says.   
  
“No, you just like being a nuisance,” Ironhide says and Sideswipe hunches his shoulders.   
  
He's almost managed to forget that Ironhide is here, watching them, supervising them, for whatever the frag reasons Ratchet's cooked up in that processor of his. Ironhide's been designated their guardian. Again, Sideswipe has no idea why this is necessary. It's part of whatever weird-as-slag game Ratchet is playing.   
  
Ratchet chuckles. “Yes, there is that,” he says, of course agreeing with Ironhide. He pats Sideswipe on the back again. “You're good to go, Sideswipe. Just take it easy. I'm serious.”   
  
“Yeah, yeah. I got ya.” He turns around, stretching his arms above his head, loosening kinked cables and letting a rush of fresh air flow over his plating. “So how about that drive?” Anticipation had been a flutter in his spark all afternoon.   
  
Ironhide chuckles. “Ya might want ta rethink that.”   
  
Sideswipe can all but _hear_ Ratchet bristle. “And why the frag should I do that?”   
  
The old warrior taps his comm unit. “Check the weather.” Which would have to be done by contacting whoever was on duty. The medbay is so deep in the volcano, they can't just look out a window.   
  
Sunstreaker lets loose a horrified gasp. “It's raining,” he says, utterly aghast.   
  
Sideswipe wilts. If it's raining, then nothing short of a direct order from Prowl or Prime will get his brother out those doors. Oh, he'll go outside in the mud and muck if he's ordered to, for patrol or something, but never for a pleasure drive. And risk getting his finish dulled? Perish the thought!  
  
“Like a typhoon,” Ironhide confirms with a nod of his helm, energy field radiating amusement. He's far too entertained for Sideswipe's liking.   
  
“Of course it is,” Ratchet mutters, field flaring with irritation.   
  
“What? You didn't have a backup plan?” Ironhide teases and Sideswipe, sensing danger, wisely moves out from between the two older mechs, taking refuge beside his brother.   
  
Ratchet's optics cycle down. “Of course I don't,” he says in a low tone, a note of warning present that Sideswipe and many other Autobots have learned to beware.   
  
Ironhide, old warrior that he is, seems to have torn out those cautionary protocols a long time ago. Either that or he's a masochist.   
  
“You're pretty bad at this courtin' thing, ain'tcha?” Ironhide says.   
  
Ratchet growls low in his vocalizer.   
  
“We don't have to go for a drive,” Sunstreaker says, over Ratchet's glare and Ironhide's smirk. “The rec room should be pretty deserted.”   
  
“I like lunch,” Sideswipe offers, because he's still pretty slagging curious about what's going on and especially curious about courting.   
  
Ironhide looks pleased with himself. “Seems like the ball's in yer court, medic.”   
  
Gathering dignity about himself like one might a gold-encrusted cloth, Ratchet draws himself to his full height. “It just so happens that I am in need of a refuel myself,” he says, and makes a pointed effort not to look at anyone. “Whether or not any of you join me is your decision.”   
  
He makes for the door.   
  
Sideswipe gives Ironhide an askance look. “Is that an invitation?”   
  
Ironhide roars with laughter. “Ratchet's idea of one, yeah.” He gives both twins a long, steady look. “I'm tellin' ya now. If ya have any reservations, now's the time to turn around and walk away.”  
  
Sunstreaker throws his hands into the air before Sideswipe can twitch. “Reservations? We still don’t know what the slag is going on!”   
  
Ironhide jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Well, yer answers are stalkin' out that door as we speak. I'm just the guardian.”   
  
“What does that even _mean_?” Sideswipe demands, exasperation coloring his vocals.   
  
Ironhide grins, the sort of smirk a mech gets when he knows something everyone else doesn't. “I get to make sure Ratchet doesn't do anything inappropriate.”   
  
Sideswipe boggles; Sunstreaker stares. “ _What_?” Sideswipe demands.   
  
The warrior mech dissolves into boisterous laughter. “Protecting your virtue is all part of my job description now.”   
  
Ironhide couldn't have flabbergasted Sideswipe anymore if he'd tried. Both of them, actually. Sunstreaker is struck speechless and Sideswipe splutters. Words, he can't form them!  
  
“That doesn't... I don't... why would...?” Sideswipe's face contorts, his processor aching in an attempt to process the new information.   
  
Sunstreaker hooks an elbow around his arm, dragging him out of the medbay. “Come on, bro,” he says as Sideswipe stumbles along with him. “We'll ask Ratchet ourselves.”   
  
“But...” Words fail him yet again.   
  
Ironhide follows, still radiating amusement. He's enjoying himself far too much for Sideswipe's comfort.   
  
They find Ratchet in the rec room, a noisily and boisterously occupied rec room as a matter of fact. Is there even anyone on shift? Primus.   
  
He immediately picks out all of the Aerialbots, the Protectobots, and the Dinobots. There's a gaggle of minibots in the center of the room, a cluster of Spec Ops in the nearest corner, and off to himself like a great, looming shadow, is Skyfire, frowning over his energon cube.   
  
They work their way through the crowd, Sunstreaker still clinging to him like an octopus. Ratchet's tucked himself away in the corner, at a table that seats four with three energon cubes waiting.   
  
“Where's mine?” Ironhide demands as the twins take a seat on either side of Ratchet, sharing glances over the table.   
  
Answers. Answers must be had.   
  
“You get your own, slagger,” Ratchet retorts.   
  
“Ungrateful aft,” Ironhide grumbles, crossing his arms. “And here I am, helpin' ya out of the kindness of mah spark.”   
  
“Oh, you selfless angel,” Ratchet says in a mocking tone. “How will I ever repay you?”   
  
Ironhide's smirk turns lecherous and a shudder races down Sideswipe's backstrut at the sight. “Come to think of it, I've got a kink in my--”  
  
“Questions!” Sideswipe all but yelps, waving one hand in the air if only to cut off that line of conversation that should never, ever see the light of day. “We have questions!”   
  
“And maybe I have answers,” Ratchet grunts, staring long and hard at Ironhide before sliding his optics back toward the twins.   
  
Throwing his hands into the air, Ironhide turns around. “I'm gonna go get that cube now,” he says, and pushes back into the noisy crowd.   
  
Sideswipe grins, more than a little relieved that the disturbing near-flirtation between Ironhide and Ratchet has come to an end. “Are we allowed to be unsupervised?”   
  
Ratchet snorts, pushing his own cube around the table and not drinking it. “You don't even know what that means.”   
  
“Then explain,” Sunstreaker insists with an oddly serious look to his faceplate.   
  
Ratchet performs a heavy in-vent, like he's gearing himself up for something difficult. “I thought it would be obvious by now,” he says, toying with his energon.   
  
Sunstreaker's optics cycle down. “Well, it's not.”   
  
Sideswipe winces, trying to send calming waves across their bond. Sunstreaker's getting a bit testy which is never a good thing, especially when it comes to Ratchet, who responds to belligerence in kind.   
  
Ratchet seems to slump in his chair, though he does give Sunstreaker a warning look. “It's simple,” he says. “Courting is how I show you two I'm serious.”   
  
“You're always serious,” Sideswipe says, trying to lighten the mood with a cheesy grin.   
  
It falls flat.   
  
“About partnering with you, idiot,” Ratchet snaps, then clamps his mouth shut, radiating guilt. He snatches up his cube and drains half of it in one gulp.   
  
Sideswipe looks at his brother, who returns the glance with equal surprise. They turn, in tandem, and stare at Ratchet. He can't seriously mean...?  
  
“You mean...?” Sideswipe trails off.   
  
“I must be out of my processor,” Ratchet mumbles and rubs his faceplate with one hand. “Yes, I intend to try a relationship with you. Both of you.”   
  
Sideswipe gapes. Oh, sure. They've both thought about wanting it. But neither him nor Sunstreaker thought it would actually happen.   
  
They're a pair of twin frontliners with a few thoughts to rub together and an aptitude for breaking the rules. Ratchet's frothed at the mouth for as many times as he he's had to put them together, pulling miracles out of thin air.   
  
Well, it's certainly an explanation for Ratchet's behavior lately. The gifts and such. But it's still a shock.   
  
“So,” Ratchet continues, when the silence stretches long enough that awkward is no longer avoidable, “since this is our first, official date, you have the option of rejecting my courtship.”   
  
Rejecting? Why on Earth would they do that?   
  
Sideswipe makes a grab for his cube to give his hands something to do. “Um, okay,” he says. “But if you wanted us, why go through all of this?”  
  
“It's not like we're hard to get in the berth or anything,” Sunstreaker adds.   
  
Sideswipe winces again. Though it is true. They like to interface, whether it be each other or a willing partner. Pleasure is much better than pain and with this war, pain is what they get a majority of the time.   
  
Anger and something else makes Ratchet's faceplate flush, his field warbling. “I don't want another empty frag, you glitches,” he hisses and looks away, fingers rapping a nonsense rhythm on the tabletop. “That's my point.”   
  
Oh.   
  
Sideswipe's optics cycle wider.   
  
_Oh_. Well, that certainly changes things.   
  
The sound of a mech loudly resetting his vocalizer breaks the startled silence. Sideswipe doesn't even have to look to know it's Ironhide.   
  
“Did I miss something?” Ironhide asks.   
  
“No,” Ratchet says and scrambles to his pedes, managing to look both guilty and embarrassed all at once. “So that's my offer,” he adds, louder and with a pointed look at Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. “Take it or leave it.”   
  
He then pulls something from his subspace and sets it on the table. Two somethings, actually, pushing one of each to Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.   
  
“Spoons?” Sideswipe asks, more than a little confused.   
  
“Wooden spoons?” Sunstreaker clarifies, equally baffled as he picks up one of the utensils and twirls it with his thumb and forefinger.   
  
“You're smart mechs,” Ratchet says. “You'll figure it out.”   
  
Ratchet leaves, vanishing into the crowd of Autobots as though he has some training in Spec Ops or something. Sideswipe is left staring at his wooden spoon, wondering what the frag he's supposed to do with it.   
  
“And here's my gift,” Ironhide says, vocals trembling as though he's trying to hold back his laughter. “For good luck.” He tosses a datapad onto the table between them.   
  
“What is it?” Sideswipe asks, giving the datapad a wary look. It never hurts to be too careful when it comes to Ironhides bearing gifts. Kind of like Ratchets, actually.   
  
“Something you'll be needing. Trust me.” Ironhide's grin widens, optics sparkling at them. “I'm rootin' for ya, brats.”   
  
Ironhide turns and leaves, too.   
  
The datapad sits on the table between them. Sideswipe stares at it. Sunstreaker wibbles and finally snatches it, powering it up.   
  
“Seriously,” Sideswipe says, turning his spoon over and over. He scans it for good measure but there's nothing special about it. “What's up with the spoon?”   
  
“It's a manual,” Sunstreaker replies.   
  
“The spoon?” Sideswipe frowns.   
  
Exasperation flashes across their bond, Sunstreaker following it up with a blat of static to his personal comm. “Not the spoon, you glitch. The datapad.” He holds up said datapad, waving it through the air. “It's the _Idiot's Guide to Courting_.”   
  
Sideswipe launches himself over the table, snatching it from his brother's hand. Sunstreaker scowls, but gives up the datapad.   
  
This, Sideswipe decides as he powers it on, is really going to come in handy. Ratchet's not going to be the only one with the upperhand anymore.  
  
The game is on.   
  


***


	13. Achy Circuits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skyfire's in a mood. Perceptor's a tad bit sore. And Jazz aims to solve both problems.

This substance is absolutely fascinating. It's molecular structure is similar to few things Perceptor has ever seen. Already his processor is supplying him potential uses. This could--  
  
Perceptor frowns. Twitches. Shifts. And winces.   
  
Primus, but he is sore. He aches from helm to pede, his circuits stretched thin, his fuel pump sluggishly working, his spark spinning a sated hum.   
  
He cannot concentrate at all. This is very distracting.   
  
Perceptor shifts again, trying to find some position that does not seem to exacerbate his symptoms. He wants nothing more than to crawl into a berth and get some recharge. For once.   
  
Ratchet will probably laugh at him. All his time spent trying to get Perceptor to recharge and it's a night of repeated overloads that actually ends up working.   
  
Jazz is quite insatiable. For that matter, Perceptor had been as well. There is something rather addicting about the sensation of Jazz's hands on him, the curl of arousal, the snap-bite of charge licking across his circuits...  
  
Perceptor twitches, calculations falling by the wayside. Oh, bother. At this rate, he'll never get anything done.   
  
“Can you not be still?”   
  
Perceptor startles, optics cycling at the unexpected and rather rude burst of conversation coming from his lab partner.   
  
He turns his helm, looking at Skyfire who isn't looking at him. “Pardon?” Perceptor asks, and reaches out with his energy field, trying to read Skyfire's. He might as well be questioning a rock, however, because Skyfire is drawn-cold.   
  
“You're twitching,” Skyfire says, staring solidly at his datapad. “I can hear the rattle in your plating from here. It's a distraction.”   
  
Perceptor reboots his audials. Skyfire is one of the most patient, kind-sparked mechs that Perceptor has ever had the honor of befriending.   
  
This is not normal behavior.   
  
“I apologize,” Perceptor says, and sets down the substance sample. “Skyfire, are you all right?”   
  
The shuttle's wings flick in a distinct rhythm that Perceptor has learned to identify as agitation. “Yes.”   
  
Perceptor doesn't need a detector to know that is a lie.   
  
He frowns. “I only ask because you seem to be upset about something.” He pauses, considering the circumstances. “Would this have anything to do--”  
  
“Perceptor, I am fine,” Skyfire interrupts, shooting Perceptor an annoyed look as he bursts to his pedes, shoving his stool out behind him. The poor shuttle's helm nearly hits the ceiling, but he ducks his helm in time. “I think I will, however, find somewhere else to finish my work.”   
  
His optics track Skyfire as the shuttle makes his way across the lab, his pace suggesting a hasty escape rather than a normal exit.   
  
“Are you certain?” Perceptor asks, his frown deepening. “It would be no trouble for me to--”  
  
“It's fine,” Skyfire interrupts, yet again, and palms the panel to the door. He draws up short. “Oh, it's you.”   
  
Perceptor leans back on his stool, catching a glimpse of black and white plating beyond Skyfire's bulk.   
  
“Hey, 'Fire,” a mech says in Jazz's distinctive vocal tones. “Ya in a hurry or somethin'? Was kind of a cold welcome, yeah?”   
  
“My apologies,” Skyfire retorts and brushes past the third-in-command with a very agitated flick of his wing panels.   
  
He's gone before Jazz can manage so much as an offended ventilation.   
  
“Primus,” Jazz says, stepping fully into the lab and allowing the door to slide shut behind him. “What climbed up his thrusters and set up house?”   
  
“I do not know.” Perceptor hunches on his own stool, discomfort etching itself through his lines. “He has been, shall I say cranky, all morning.”  
  
“Cranky? Skyfire? That does not compute.” Jazz's grin has yet to fade, however.   
  
He sidles right up next to Perceptor, helm nuzzling against the microscope's right shoulder. “He isn't glitching?”   
  
“I do not think so.” While Jazz's visit is welcome, the touch is not. He feels far too sensitive and Perceptor subtly shifts away. “He is upset about something.”   
  
“Hmm.” Perceptive as always, Jazz tilts his helm away, though his energy field lightly caresses Perceptor's. “Sounds like somethin' I need to investigate.”   
  
Perceptor's frown melts into a smile. “If you would please. I am concerned.”   
  
“Then Jazz is on the case.” Jazz grins and lightly drags a finger down the length of Perceptor's arm. “Now I gotta ask if you're all right?”   
  
“Nothing that won't self-repair in time,” Perceptor assures him.   
  
“Or,” Jazz says, swinging around to put himself between Perceptor and his lab table, “I could speed up the process.” He pulls something out of subspace and juggles it back and forth between his hands.   
  
Perceptor raises his orbital ridges. “I am a little afraid to ask.”   
  
Jazz laughs. “My own personal recipe. A little bit of sensor gel, a dab of high-powered nanites, some of this and that, all swirled about in a blend of fancy wax.”   
  
Perceptor's fingers twitch. Intrigued, he makes a grab for the container, if only to scan the contents. “Sunstreaker would be jealous.”   
  
“He helped me mix it up,” Jazz retorts with a roll of his optics and leans forward, ex-vents ghosting over Perceptor's plating. “I'll comm you the recipe.”   
  
How quickly Jazz has come to understand him.   
  
“Much appreciated.”   
  
“On another note,” Jazz continues, pulling back and leaning on the desk, hands braced against the edge behind him. “Word on the street says you wanted to go to some kind of lecture up in Seattle.”  
  
Perceptor's spark skips a beat. “Yes. I intended to ask Beachcomber but he has become otherwise occupied.”   
  
“Ya could always ask me.”   
  
“But astrophysics is of little interest to you,” Perceptor replies, unable to hide the surprise in his energy field.   
  
Amusement rumbles in Jazz's chassis. “Maybe not. But I know what does.”   
  
Perceptor hums thoughtfully, reaching past Jazz for the datapad he had abandoned earlier. He can't recall if he'd saved his progress or not. “The drive?”   
  
Jazz laughs, turning his helm to stare pointedly at Perceptor's arm. “No. Spendin' time with my new partner.”   
  
“Oh.”   
  
Well, now Perceptor feels foolish, and perhaps a tad embarrassed as well. He can be so dense sometimes.   
  
His faceplates flush with heat, indecision warring heavily inside of him. He wants to take Jazz up on his offer. But the ache in his circuits and the utter haste of all that has happened lately makes him want to take a step back.   
  
“Jazz, I...” Perceptor trails off, words failing him when they are usually his best weapon.   
  
“Perceptor.”   
  
Jazz's vocals, confident and kind, encourage Perceptor to lift his optics and meet the bright visor of his newly acquired partner.   
  
“It's okay,” Jazz says and reaches out, hand gently folding over Perceptor's own. “I'm on the same datapad. Slow 'n steady, yeah?”   
  
Tension bleeds out of his hydraulics. Tension that Perceptor hadn't even realized was present.   
  
He smiles, relaxing visibly. “Yes.”   
  
“Good.” Jazz holds up the tin of special wax again. “With that being said, you still look in need of some relief.”   
  
Warmth suffuses Perceptor's spark. “Regretfully so. While the night's activities were pleasurable, the aftereffects are akin to a high grade induced overcharge.”   
  
“Percy, you have no idea how much of a compliment you just gave me,” Jazz replies with a laugh and a playful flash of his visor.   
  
His faceplate heats again. “I was being truthful.”   
  
“That makes it all the more genuine.” Jazz takes his hand, pulling it up to his mouth, brushing his lipplates over the sensor-lined tips. “My place or yours?”   
  
“Yours,” Perceptor replies, a shiver dancing down his backstrut. “I am afraid my quarters are still in disarray.”   
  
As is his lab, thus the reason he's sharing with Skyfire at the moment. Of course, the state of his private lab is entirely Jazz's fault.   
  
“Your tendency toward clutter will never cease to amuse me,” Jazz says, and presses a kiss to Perceptor's palm. “I am glad you took Ratchet up on that bet.”   
  
Tingles spread outward, from where Jazz's lips brush across his plating. Perceptor smiles. “As am I.”   
  


***


	14. Double Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The courtship continues and Sideswipe didn't read the manual. Luckily, Sunstreaker did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. You're seeing this right. Two years later there's an update. I'm so sorry I let this sit for so long. I got distracted by other projects. Hopefully, such a delay won't happen next time.

Lounging on the berth with one of his novel datapads, Sideswipe listlessly pages through the short story selection. He's read them all before, twice even, and he liked them, but he wants something new and exciting.   
  
He's bored.   
  
At their shared desk, fingers tap-tapping on Teletraan's console, Sunstreaker looks equally unenthused. Then again, Sunstreaker rarely looks enthused so it can be hard to tell.   
  
“What do you want to do today?” Sunstreaker asks. They really ought to take advantage of this shared off-shift.   
  
Sideswipe grins, flopping over onto his back. “The same thing we do every day, Sunny.”   
  
A slow, suspicious turn of his helm and Sunstreaker gives Sideswipe a long look. “Which is?”   
  
“Try to take over the world!” Sideswipe gives his brother a thumbs up.   
  
Shaking his helm, Sunstreaker sighs and returns to the console. “Idiot.”   
  
“And yet you love me anyway!”   
  
“That's because love is blind,” Sunstreaker says, and his lips curl up into a smirk. “And apparently stupid.”   
  
Sideswipe jerks upright, pinning his twin with a glare. “Hey!”  
  
“If the paint job fits...” Sunstreaker trails off, rolling his shoulders in a shrug as his figure on screen mercilessly pummels his opponent.   
  
Someone chimes their door. Sideswipe cycles his optics, looking toward it. “Were you expecting anyone?”   
  
“Am I ever expecting anyone?” Sunstreaker retorts.   
  
Sideswipe hops off the berth, fully expecting to see Smokescreen or Bluestreak or Bumblebee or... “Ratchet,” he says as the door opens, revealing the white medic. “And Ironhide.” Does he sound confused? Because he is.   
  
“Prime's here, too,” the red warrior drawls, throwing a thumb over his shoulder.   
  
Sideswipe gapes for a long moment as their great and glorious leader offers a genial wave. “Um, not to sound rude or anything, but why?” Because when three members of command show up on your doorstep, Sideswipe's immediate instinct is to run. Whatever it is, he _didn't_ do it. Seriously. He's been far too busy for mischief as of late.   
  
“You didn't read the manual?” Ironhide asks, shouldering his way into their quarters without so much as a by-your-leave.   
  
“Sort of,” Sideswipe hedges as Prime and Ratchet come trailing in after their red van crowd-pusher. “Am I missing something?”   
  
“The next date,” Ratchet says, trying and failing to hold to his dignity. “Unless you're not interested in which case, let me get back to my medbay where I have work to do.”   
  
Sideswipe snags his arm before Ratchet can storm back out the open doorway. “You could give us a chance to answer,” he says.   
  
Sunstreaker pushes to his pedes, optics skittering around the triad of command staff. “The next date is still chaperoned,” he says and of course Sunstreaker had read the whole manual. “Does that mean...?”  
  
“Yeah.” Ironhide folds his arms over his chestplate. “I gotta be there. But this time, I'm sharin' my misery.”   
  
“By forcing Optimus Prime to come?” Sideswipe demands, throwing his arms into the air. No, he's not intimidated. He's merely... well, he's something. Not outraged or indignant or uneasy. Maybe perplexed?  
  
Optimus chuckles. “No, Sideswipe, I volunteered. It would be rude to expect my partner to suffer alone.”   
  
“Oh, well that makes all kinds of sense!” Sideswipe says with a roll of his optics, only to pause. “Wait. Partner?”   
  
Ratchet snickers. “Best kept secret on the Ark.”   
  
Sunstreaker's jaw drops. Sideswipe echoes him. He looks between Optimus and Ironhide and his first instinct is to say “ew.” Except he doesn't. He swallows it down and searches for other words, but there are none to be found.   
  
“And a secret that we ask you keep,” Optimus says, his rumbling vocals pleasant to the audials but holding an undercurrent of threat.   
  
Sideswipe claps a hand to his chestplate. “We can keep a secret.” He nudges his twin with an elbow. “Right, Sunny?”   
  
Sunstreaker makes a strangled noise as though he, too, is resisting the urge to scrunch up his nose and comment on the grossness of imagining Optimus and Ironhide clanging.   
  
They shudder in unison.   
  
“Right,” Sunstreaker manages with a choked ventilation.   
  
“Good.” Ironhide claps a hand on each of their shoulders, fingers gripping with enough force to threaten the metal. “So long as we all understand.”   
  
Optimus' menace was still scarier.   
  
Sideswipe winces and casts hopeful optics in Ratchet's direction. “Date?”   
  
“I arranged private time in the theater,” Ratchet says. “That is, if you're amenable.”   
  
“A movie.” Sideswipe's optics brighten with glee. Even better that it would be in private!   
  
He won't have to listen to Gears gripe about the night's selection or Huffer mutter that it's too loud while Powerglide complains that it's too quiet. And then Inferno chews his rust sticks with his mouth open and Smokescreen keeps trying to make bets in the corner. While Red Alert constantly asks “what happens next” instead of waiting and worse still, Bumblebee answers him and spoils it for everyone.   
  
“Which one?” Sunstreaker asks.   
  
Optimus gives Ironhide a look, which prompts the old warrior to finally release the twins. “It's a surprise.”   
  
Sideswipe winces and exchanges a glance with Sunstreaker, or tries to anyway. His twin is glaring at his shoulder as though it offends him, frowning over an invisible scuff.   
  
Well, Sideswipe supposes it can't be any more boring than the nothing they were doing before.   
  
“Then let's go,” Sideswipe says, and shoos the three members of the command staff toward the door. “Time's wasting.”   
  
“So romantic,” Ironhide drawls with a smirk. One that only increases in size when Ratchet growls and slaps him upside the helm.   
  
“Please refrain from damaging my partner,” Optimus says. “I will have a use for him later.”   
  
Sideswipe shudders. Sunstreaker echoes him.   
  
“This is either going to be really awkward or really painful,” Sunstreaker mutters.  
  
“Or both,” Sideswipe agrees.   
  
Fortunately, once in the hall, Optimus and Ironhide drop back behind the courting trio. Sideswipe's back plating itches as though he's being stared at and he has to resist the urge to look over his shoulder.   
  
“What about snacks?” Sideswipe asks if only to try and ignore the embarrassing fact they have _chaperones_. “We can't watch a movie without snacks.”   
  
Sunstreaker sighs. “Sides--”  
  
But Ratchet holds up a hand, cutting Sunstreaker off. “I'm well-aware, Sideswipe.” The humor in his tone matches his half-smile. “And you'll have to see when we get there.”   
  
He's never been good at being patient. But Sideswipe sighs an aggrieved sigh and lets Ratchet lead them to the room they'd repurposed into a theater. With Prime's approval, of course. Bad enough they're trapped in a never-ending war and lost four million years. Optimus tends to get indulgent because of both.   
  
Given the lack of room in the Ark, the theater is still large enough to accommodate a large group of Autobots. The massive screen takes up one wall, courtesy of Wheeljack, and Sparkplug had been given the honor of setting up the VCR for them. A task, the human had claimed, could be quite difficult.   
  
Smokescreen had scoffed, saying that if humans could do it, so could Cybertronians. Three broken VCRs later, they'd all bowed to the master that was Sparkplug.   
  
Optimus and Ironhide sit in the second row, leaving room for Ratchet and his dates to occupy the front row.   
  
Yeah. That's not going to be awkward at all. But, he supposes beggars can't be choosers.   
  
Sunstreaker sits, too, and the empty seat left between them is most obviously for Ratchet. Sideswipe can hear Optimus and Ironhide murmuring behind them, but he's afraid if he turns around the two of them will be cuddling or something equally horrifying.   
  
Luckily, Ratchet provides a distraction in the form of carefully slotting a tape into the VCR and handing a Cybertronian-sized remote to Sideswipe. He then produces a box from beneath his seat before carefully lowering himself down between the twins.   
  
Sideswipe takes a peek and his tank grumbles with interest. Snacks. His mouth fills with oral fluid.   
  
“Do we have to share?” he asks, pointedly not looking at the two mechs behind him, one of whom could easily decimate everything in the box.   
  
“We brought our own,” Optimus Prime assures him.   
  
Ironhide's laughter doesn't make the awkwardness any easier.   
  
Sideswipe lowers his vocals. “How much longer do we have to be chaperoned?” he asks, barely above a whisper.   
  
“You should have read the manual,” Ratchet retorts and shoves a box of rust sticks into his hand.   
  
Sideswipe's reply is drowned out by the resounding boom of the surround sound. At some internal cue, the lights in the room dim.   
  
He waits for the seats to stop shaking before he pokes Ratchet in the side. “But what if--”  
  
“Shh,” Ironhide says with a not so subtle kick to the back of Sideswipe's chair. “Movie's on.”   
  
Uggggghhhhh.   
  
Sideswipe crams a handful of rust sticks into his mouth and crunches them noisily. He ignores the look Sunstreaker gives him.   
  
The movie better be good.   
  
Spoiler alert: it is. But only in comparison to the tension of Optimus flippin' Prime sitting right behind his right shoulder and Ironhide looming over his left. Or that Ratchet is sitting next to him, optics locked on the screen and not paying either twin any attention.   
  
Now, Sideswipe likes Ratchet. Which sort of came as a shock to him, but it's the truth. He and Sunstreaker both like Ratchet.   
  
What they don't like is this whole courting nonsense. They've already done the deed. Why bother taking a step back to this chaste nonsense?  
  
Because when the movie ends, instead of sticking around, maybe trying to ditch their chaperones, Ratchet escorts them back to their quarters with their hands clasped ever so daringly in the most celibate behavior Sideswipe has ever engaged in.   
  
Worse that Sunstreaker actually seems to be enjoying the courting process. He read that stupid Idiot's Guide front and back and he hasn't protested once.   
  
It isn't until they are outside the quarters Sideswipe shares with his twin that their chaperones give them space. Granted they are still in sight, watching with gimlet optics, but they aren't breathing down their collective backstruts either.   
  
“Please tell me they aren't always going to be here,” Sideswipe says, leaning against the door.   
  
Sunstreaker rolls his optics. “Should've read the book. This is the last chaperoned date should we decide to continue the courtship.”   
  
“At least one of you has some sense,” Ratchet says, but his gruff tone belies that awkward shift of his weight.   
  
“Thank Primus.” Sideswipe sags in relief.   
  
“Though that does bring up the question,” Ratchet continues, stepping nearer so that he might lower his voice. “Are you interested?”   
  
“I would've been interested without all this.” Sideswipe makes a vague wave, intending to encompass all, well, this.  
  
Sunstreaker elbows him in the side. “Yes, Ratchet,” he says and presses his other hand to his chestplate. “We would be honored.”   
  
Ratchet's optics brighten. “You even remembered the formal phrasing. I'm impressed. Do you know what comes next?”   
  
“I do,” Sunstreaker says and this time it's a purr. He steps closer to Ratchet and reaches up, curling a hand around the medic's helm.  
  
Ratchet leans down and Sideswipe gapes as the two kiss, though it is barely a brush of their lips together and certainly no glossa is involved. Nevertheless, Sideswipe's cooling fans click on with a quiet purr.   
  
They part a mere second later, Ratchet with a smile and Sunstreaker with the smallest of grins. And then Ratchet turns toward Sideswipe with intent in his optics and Sideswipe almost trips over himself to take advantage of those lips, a little sound working its way through his vocalizer.   
  
It's over far too quickly and Sideswipe absolutely doesn't chase after those retreating lips.   
  
Ratchet coughs into his hand, a hint of heat in his faceplates. “And these are for you.” He roots around in his subspace and produces two tiny squares of lacy cloths. He hands one each to Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.   
  
“My gifts,” Ratchet says with an exaggerated bow.   
  
“Thank you,” Sunstreaker replies with another press of his palm to his chestplate. “We are most grateful.”   
  
Sideswipe arches an orbital ridge.   
  
Ratchet grins. “You are very welcome. Now you two have a good night.” He turns on a heel.   
  
“Wha... that's it?” Sideswipe asks, aghast. “A scrap of lace and a kiss and there you go?”   
  
Ratchet tosses a smirk over his shoulder. “Yes. Ask your brother for the details.”   
  
He leaves them, joining Optimus and Ironhide still lingering down the hall. Sideswipe would be embarrassed if he weren't so slagging confused.   
  
Sunstreaker grabs his arm, tugging him into their quarters. “Come on. I'll explain.”  
  
Sideswipe certainly hopes so. Because, right now, he's _lost_.   
  


***


	15. Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Progress  
> Characters: Ratchet, Wheeljack, Perceptor, Skyfire, Jazz  
> Rating: K+  
> Warning: None  
> Description: The usual suspects gather to discuss their respective progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: This is for a flash fiction fill but actually, it's not. See. What had happened was, I wrote a fill for Skywinder for Tracks and Sideswipe and courting set in Apple a Day, and I referenced a bunch of stuff that hadn't happened yet because I forgot that I hadn't posted that chapter yet. So. I need to post to get to that fill before I do otherwise you'll all just be confused. This and two more chapters need to be posted before I can post the fill. *bows deeply*
> 
> I do apologize, Skywinder. But I promise it's written! I just, uh, had a moment.

It was a night such as this that had prompted so many disasters, Ratchet thinks, but with a grin rather than a snarl. Last time had been a blend of bitterness attacked by exasperation that he attempted to drown in high grade.  
  
Instead, he'd ended up participating in a challenge with his best friends. One that encouraged him to act on a deeply hidden desire.  
  
Fortunately, it had turned out for the better.  
  
And he's not the only one.  
  
“Perhaps we should forgo the triple-distilled high grade this time, yes?” Perceptor suggests as they seat themselves at their favorite table in the corner of the rec room.  
  
There is no celebration this time, but this has become a weekly ritual. The four of them carving out an hour to spend together regardless of shifts and other responsibilities.  
  
It had been Wheeljack's idea.  
__  
“The war might continue ad infinitum _. We can't let ourselves be dragged into the morass.”_  
  
And he was right. Though Ratchet doesn't dare tell the glitch that. He'd be far too smug.  
  
Wheeljack chuckles. “Just plain old midgrade then? Sounds boring.”  
  
“We could keep the high grade and avoid the game of _truth or dare_ ,” Ratchet says with a grunt, all but collapsing into his chair. A mid-air collision amid the Aerialbots and he'd been up to his elbows in jets. This is the first time he's sat down all fragging day.  
  
“Yes, because it didn't work out well for you at all,” Wheeljack drawls with a pink flash of his indicators.  
  
Ratchet rolls his optics. “Don't start, 'Jack. Because I seem to remember Red Alert catching you and a certain someone in the hallway.”  
  
Wheeljack leans forward, draping himself across his corner of the table. “Are you expectin' me to be embarrassed 'bout that? 'Cause I'm not.” He winks an optic.  
  
“Exhibitionist,” Perceptor accuses though it is with a twinkle in his optics that speaks volumes of the happiness in his field.  
  
“You know it,” Wheeljack replies.  
  
Ratchet laughs. “You are all incorrigible.”  
  
“I am not,” Percepter retorts, but it's hard to be indignant when his lips are stretched in a smile. “I am obedient and circumspect.”  
  
Ratchet all but guffaws. “Perhaps. But you know what they say about the quiet ones.”  
  
“We get what we want?” Perceptor suggests.  
  
Wheeljack snickers. “If what you want is Jazz then I'll say so.”  
  
Heat floods Perceptor's faceplate, turning it a delicate pink. He curls around his cube. In fact, he'd hide behind it if he could.  
  
“We've come to an agreement,” Perceptor murmurs.  
  
Ratchet leans forward. “Of what sort?”  
  
“To go slow.” Perceptor's field hums, nearly infectious in his glee.  
  
“Slow!” Wheeljack raises both orbital ridges. “After you all but tackled him in front of everyone. And not everything you did was out of Red Alert's camera range you know.”  
  
Perceptor flushes with embarrassment. “Yes, well, I blame that on high grade. I prefer to make such serious decisions when sober.” He toys with his cube and then shifts his gaze to Ratchet. “And you? Rumor suggest that you and Sideswipe and Sunstreaker seem to be getting along well.”  
  
Ratchet reclines in his chair, completely at ease. Oh, he'd been embarrassed at first, but watching the Twins squirm as they struggle to comprehend the archaic process he's using has made that embarrassment fade.  
  
“We're courting.”  
  
Beside him, Skyfire stirs. “Courting? I didn't know we were still relying on such practices.”  
  
“We're not.” Ratchet rolls his shoulders in a shrug. “But it was easier somehow.”  
  
“Easier?” Perceptor prompts.  
  
Ratchet nods and fiddles with his own cube. “They have a reputation, you know? I thought I'd just have one night and it would be enough. But it turns out, it isn't.” His gaze falls to the table, a safer place. “Courting gives them the time to back out without commitment and gives me something to hide behind.”  
  
“You want them to realize how serious you are.” Perceptor's smile turns fond. “I can understand that.”  
  
“Who's their guardian?” Skyfire asks.  
  
This time, Ratchet smirks. “Optimus. Ironhide claims he is compromised, ” he says and tosses back his cube. Yes, the midgrade isn't going to cut it. He's going to need something with a bit more of a burn.  
  
It's a long while since his partying days but he's not planning on getting as overcharged as he was the night of the bet.  
  
Wheeljack laughs. “And how confused were they?”  
  
“Very. But Ironhide gave them a guide and at least Sunstreaker's read it.” Ratchet rolls his shoulders in a shrug. “They're still interested and they haven't called it off yet. I consider those good signs.”  
  
Perceptor sips at his cube. “You've yet to bid for exclusivity, I take it?”  
  
“Don't want to push.” Not that he's heard about the Twins leaping from berth to berth since they started their courtship. But Ratchet doesn't want to chase them away either. He doesn't want any misunderstandings.  
  
Speaking of which... Ratchet turns to Skyfire, who isn't sharing the same cheer as the rest of them. “What about you, Skyfire?”  
  
The large shuttle toys with his midgrade, pushing the cube across the table but not drinking it. “There's nothing to say,” he says. “It didn't work out.”  
  
Ratchet blinks.  
  
Perceptor leans close, laying a hand on Skyfire's arm. “I am sorry to hear that. Do you mind if I ask...?”  
  
“No. I don't want to talk about it.” Skyfire shakes his helm and then lifts his high grade, only to drain it in a flash. “It is best forgotten.”  
  
Ratchet exchanges a glance with Wheeljack. He doesn't know who Skyfire had been harboring a crush on. True none of them had revealed who they wanted, though in Ratchet's case, his had been obvious. He had not been subtle in delivering the invitation apparently. Not that he remembers that night with any clarity.  
  
Then again, Perceptor hadn't been sneaky either. It's a strange day when Wheeljack manages to bear more subtlety.  
  
“But was it worth it?” Ratchet asks, feeling a twinge of guilt.  
  
They had all been overcharged and overeager. They'd dared each other to follow through on a secret yearning. It had been easier, Ratchet remembers, to agree to do so when they knew they wouldn't be the only ones possibly being fools.  
  
What were the odds that all four of them would emerge happy?  
  
Seventy-five percent apparently.  
  
Skyfire toys with his cube, slumped shoulders making him appear much smaller than a mass-displaced shuttle could possibly be. “I suppose that a chance, however slim, is better than no chance at all.”  
  
Ratchet pats Skyfire's other arm, offering comfort with his field. The shuttle is withdrawn, but accepts the gentle hum of Ratchet's comfort with a shy smile.  
  
That is, of course, the moment Jazz chooses to sashay up to their table and place a rather chaste hand on Perceptor's shoulder, opposite his scope. “Evenin' folks,” he says with a half-lit visor, his idea of a wink. “Mind if I borrow Perceptor here?”  
  
“Depends on what you're borrowing him for,” Wheeljack says as he lounges in a chair. “And whether or not we get pictures.”  
  
“Wheeljack!” Horror wars with amusement and Ratchet's not sure which of them Perceptor prefers.  
  
Jazz tilts his helm. “I dunno. How much ya gonna offer for them?”  
  
“Jazz!” Perceptor rises from his chair to the same intensity as his outrage. “Don't encourage him for Primus' sake.”  
  
Jazz chuckles and hooks an elbow with Perceptor. “You ask and I obey, my sweet. Shall we go?”  
  
Perceptor sighs and gives Jazz what is perhaps the most besotted look Ratchet has ever seen. “Whatever will I do with you?”  
  
“Please don't answer,” Ratchet interjects as he catches a glimpse of the wicked curve to Jazz's lips. “Or if you do, save it for private.”  
  
Jazz turns away with Perceptor on his arm, but not before throwing a parting shot over his shoulder. “Those courting rules leave you high and dry, don't they?”  
  
Ratchet sputters, but the outrageous spy is gone before he can formulate any kind of retort.  
  
Wheeljack, with a death wish, laughs himself right out of his chair.  
  
Skyfire pushes from his seat with a noisy clatter, his chair tipping backward, and he scrambles madly to keep it from falling.  
  
“Skyfire?” Ratchet starts to rise but Skyfire waves a hand of dismissal his direction.  
  
“No. It's nothing. I'm fine. Really.” Skyfire hastily puts his chair back in place, his wings slicked down against his back. “You two have fun. I think I would rather return to my quarters.”  
  
Ratchet frowns. “Are you sure?  
  
Wheeljack climbs back into his chair, getting himself under control.  
  
“Yes, I'm sure.” Skyfire hesitates, looking at them and then scanning the rec room at large, before returning his gaze to Ratchet. “Sorry. I wouldn't have been good company anyway.” He squeezes the back of his stool and then dips his helm in apology again.  
  
Ratchet watches him go, the crowd parting to make room for the larger shuttle, but no one giving him pause or calling out to him. He wonders if Skyfire's unfortunate crush is in the mix, but it is impossible to say.  
  
“Am I the only one feelin' a bit guilty?” Wheeljack asks, chair scraping against the floor as he scoots closer to Ratchet.  
  
“It's not our fault,” Ratchet says but Jack does have a point. “All we can do is be his friend. And help him through it.”  
  
Wheeljack stirs a finger through what's left of his midgrade. “You aren't curious?”  
  
“Yeah. But it's none of our business. If he wants to share, he'll share.”  
  
Wheeljack doesn't look so convinced. And Ratchet doesn't feel convinced. The dissatisfaction in Skyfire's field had been physically tangible.  
  
Maybe it is time for Ratchet to do some snooping.  
  


***


	16. All the Right Reasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wheeljack asks a question and Prowl has all the right answers.

“Why did you say yes?”  
  
Prowl stirs from a dozing state, resurfacing to the soft question accompanied by an even softer pulse of blue. “Hmm?”   
  
Wheeljack strokes a hand down the plane of one door wing and fiddles with the outer handle. “When I came to you in your office that night. What made you say yes?”   
  
He onlines his optics and looks down at his lover. There's nothing in Wheeljack's field to indicate distress, merely curiosity. “You mean, other than the fact that I wished to?”   
  
Happiness bleeds into Wheeljack's field and it tingles in a nice rhythm against Prowl's own. “Yeah. Because it's not like you were harboring a secret crush on me or anything.”   
  
“True,” Prowl admits and is doubly relieved when Wheeljack doesn't immediately take this as an insult or a disappointment. “But only because I never allowed myself to consider anyone. However, when you asked, I found myself interested.”   
  
“And now?”   
  
“I am even more so.”   
  
“Why?”   
  
Prowl tilts his helm, reading something in the base of Wheeljack's field that he can't quite name. “You are surprised I would desire you?”   
  
Wheeljack shrugs. “I'm no Sideswipe or Sunstreaker.” He pauses and his optics brighten with humor. “Or Jazz for that matter.”  
  
“It is not about looks. Well, not only.” It is Prowl's turn to offer a smile, as sincere a reassurance as any words can be. “I find your frame appealing, but it is your mind that truly fascinates. I work in straight lines and hard facts. You seem to reach into an ether I can never hope to fathom.”   
  
Wheeljack's indicators glow a rosy hue at him, an approximation of a blush that he'd picked up from the humans social algorithms. “You mean that my head is in the clouds more often than not.”   
  
“I did not say it was a bad thing. You have dreams where I find it difficult to see beyond realities.”   
  
“So I'm logically the illogical one for you?”   
  
Prowl chuckles and presses a kiss to Wheeljack's chestplate. It is a brush of his lips over a lingering scrape in the paint. “If you must define it so. Why the sudden curiosity?”   
  
Wheeljack rolls his shoulders. His tires scrape the berth. “I'm a scientist. It's what I do. Theorize, hypothesize, test. And the results are improbable. Seventy-five percent success? It boggles the processor!”   
  
Prowl cycles his optics and it takes him a moment to connect the threads of Wheeljack's thought patterns. “It is a lucky outcome. Except, perhaps, for Skyfire.”   
  
“Tell me about it. You wouldn't happen to know...?”  
  
“I do not. You would be better asking Jazz or someone fully tapped into the gossiping network.” Prowl pauses and tilts his helm. “Or even Red Alert.”   
  
Wheeljack snickers. “Red Alert sees all. Even things he shouldn't.”   
  
“Indeed.”   
  
Prowl settles as Wheeljack's soft stroking continues, a motion meant to be soothing, but stirs other desires now that Prowl is no longer attempting to initiate recharge. He hums, pushing one panel further into Wheeljack's hand.   
  
“Oh, dear,” the engineer says with a sly tone. “I seem to have started something I'm gonna have to finish.”   
  
“Unless you prefer to be branded a tease.”   
  
Wheeljack chuckles. “We can't have that.”   
  
His other hand comes into play, mapping the planes of Prowl's panels with expert precision. Pleasure suffuses his frame as his spark spinns at a gradually faster rate. A slow and steady overload sounds rather appealing right now, though he'll take whatever comes.   
  
Simply being in Wheeljack's presence, he's learned, fills him with happiness. They have more in common than anyone could have expected and Prowl is ever grateful that Wheeljack had taken that first step. Otherwise he might have never seen the engineer for the mech he is.   
  
One hand finds a hinge and Prowl all but purrs, arching against Wheeljack beneath him. They are of a size, though Prowl carries the greater mass, and he enjoys that similarity between them.   
  
Prowl tilts his panels so that Wheeljack can reach them better and draws up his knees so that he straddles Wheeljack's hips. His own hands brace against Wheeljack's ventral plating and his thumbs sweep the curved glass of his windshield, teasing the narrow gap where it rests against his plating.   
  
Wheeljack shivers, his armor loosening to both grant Prowl access and ease the pressure of building heat. “And what are ya lookin' for tonight, Prowl? Fast and hard or slow and steady?”   
  
His fingers continue stroking the smooth glass though he shifts his weight and leans forward to allow his glossa to trace the stark lines of red and green. “One and then perhaps the other.”   
  
Wheeljack's indicators pulse a soft rose. “That could take all night.”   
  
“And yet you will hear no complaint from me.” Provided his frame does not protest. Sometimes Prowl begins with the intention of many things, but exhaustion wins out.   
  
The brightness of Wheeljack's optics suggest a grin would have been hiding behind his mask, were it not permanently affixed. “Wasn't either. Just giving fair warning.”   
  
One of his hands slips lower and the Prowl hears the tiniest of transformation clicks before slim manipulators slip between the narrow crevices of his armor plating and tease the sensory nodes beneath. Prowl shivers. The lazy heat builds to a slow crescendo. His cooling fans click on with a quiet purr that rumbles his frame and Wheeljack's by proxy.   
  
“I appreciate your consideration.” Prowl's mouth wanders further up. He discovers the sensitive column of Wheeljack's intake as his lover tips back his helm.   
  
Wheeljack intakes sharply, the low moan vibrating against Prowl's lips. “And I appreciate your attention to detail.”   
  
Prowl hums low in his chassis and sets his hands free, mapping out every line of paint on Wheeljack's frame that is within reach. His fingers draw arcs of charge that snap against his own plating and sets his system aflame. Wheeljack's manipulators are also wreaking havoc on his sensory net, firing off burst after burst of pleasure directly into his systems.   
  
Prowl shudders from helm to pede, his sensory panels flicking in tight circles. He ex-vents hot air bursts against Wheeljack's intake, denta nibbling on the sensitive metal.   
  
Wheeljack moans and rolls beneath him. Their plating slides together in a stirring rub of metal on metal. “Plug into me,” he gasps out, as desperate a plea as Prowl has ever heard him give. It is accompanied by the loud snap of a panel popping mere inches from Prowl's hand. Wheeljack's ports spit eager charge into the air.   
  
Prowl absolutely does not fumble for his cables, drawing them out with jerky movements that betray his eagerness. Every time, he thinks with an internal shiver. Every time is better than the one before and he nudges his jack against Wheeljacks' port, bracing himself for the onslaught of pleasure.   
  
He is not disappointed.   
  
Prowl's cable clicks home and their connection snaps into place with an almost painful need. He moans and buries his face in Wheeljack's throat. He presses himself down harder on Wheeljack as the pleasure ping-pongs between them.   
  
Wheeljack's arms wrap around him, an almost crushing embrace. His engine is revving, vibrating Prowl and the entire berth, and Prowl's engine cycles up to answer it.   
  
Wheeljack moans his designation, drawing out the final glyph in a rolling purr that makes Prowl's spark throb with want. He's close, can feel the overload hovering on the horizon, and Prowl gathers up every ounce of charge and throws it across the connection. If he's going down, Wheeljack is coming with him.   
  
He picks up a startled sound from his partner and then Wheeljack squeezes tight, helm thrown back as he shouts in overload. Heat pulses between them to the steady beat of pleasure and the backlash throws Prowl over the edge.   
  
His vision goes white, his audials hear nothing but the roar of fans, and overload rips through him with all the force of an energon prod to the sensor nexus. Prowl ex-vents in a burst and goes limp atop Wheeljack, enjoying the lingering bursts of pleasure that pepper his lines.   
  
Very nice.   
  
Beneath him, Wheeljack stirs and loosens his embrace. He does not, however, disconnect them, and the light exchange of satisfaction between them is very welcome.   
  
“Mmm.” Wheeljack presses a palm to Prowl's back, just below the joint of his sensory panels. “Now that's what I call appreciation.”   
  
Prowl chuckles. “Indeed. One might even say it is a good reason to indulge in some recharge.”   
  
“Oh? Was I keeping you from your beauty sleep?”   
  
“You are incorrigible.” Prowl tilts his helm, looking into the optics of his unapologetic partner.   
  
“You gonna punishment me for it?” Wheeljack's tone is positively wicked, despite the echoes of overload still simmering through their lines.   
  
“Insatiable, too.”   
  
“I didn't know that was a crime.”   
  
“It is not.” Prowl lays his helm on Wheeljack's chestplate once more, audials tuning in to the familiar and rhythmic beat of Wheeljack's spark. “But if you do not allow me to recharge now, I will be most unpleasant for the course of my shift.”   
  
“Sir, yes, sir.” Wheeljack's field, however, registers nothing but fond amusement. “Should we disconnect?”   
  
Prowl tests the light stream of data and finds it quite comfortable. “If it causes you discomfort, yes. If it does not, then leave it be.”   
  
Wheeljack's purr of approval hits all the right notes. “It's good for now.”   
  
Yes, Prowl thinks, already drowsily sliding toward recharge. It is very good.   
  


****


	17. Exclusive Rights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> According to the manual, the next step is Sideswipe and Sunstreaker's to make.

The third date comes and goes without sign of a chaperone which Sideswipe would like to say he is grateful for. Ironhide's presence had been disconcerting at the very least and though Sunstreaker had taken it in stride, Sideswipe did not approve.   
  
Sunny, for some odd reason, has been throwing himself into this whole courtship process with everything he has, frame and spark. He likes it, the glitch.   
  
“There are guidelines,” he says when Sideswipe tries to poke him into explaining why. “Makes it easier.”   
  
Sideswipe guesses it's because Sunny just doesn't get mechs sometimes and when there are rules to follow, it's easier. Maybe that's why he obeys Prowl faster than he'll obey Prime. Optimus likes to give leeway. Prowl tells it like it is.   
  
“Plus,” Sunstreaker adds, almost a bit shy, ducking his helm. “It's kind of nice. To be treated like we matter, you know?”  
  
And well, Sideswipe can't fault him for that either.   
  
Anyway, the third date comes and goes. Ratchet takes them off the Ark this time and thank Primus the Decepticons don't interrupt their fun. He takes them, of all places, to a car show and while he lingers on the outskirts, looking as out of place as an ambulance can look, Sideswipe has a grand old time. Sunstreaker admires a few paint jobs and even picks up a tip or two from one of the attendees.   
  
And after Ratchet walks them back to their rooms, they get another one of those chaste but wonderful kisses, and off he goes. It's frustrating as the Pit. Sunny loves it.   
  
Sideswipe's feeling the burn, though. Even if Ratchet had given them each a small energon dagger as a present. Whatever the frag that's supposed to mean.   
  
Their fourth date is interrupted by the Decepticons and they spend the majority of it in the medbay. For once, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are not patients, but they are shorthanded on staff enough that it's all hands on deck.   
  
With First Aid collapsed on a berth of his own – Bruticus had taken great pleasure in stomping Defensor's left arm into the dirt – Ratchet and Hoist struggle to keep everyone online.   
  
Megatron had been particularly vicious. He'd ripped through Optimus' plating as though he intended to hold Optimus' pulsing spark in his two hands. And perhaps he had. Ironhide's timely intervention had kept their Prime alive, but he'd resorted to stasis lock.   
  
Wheeljack, Skyfire, and Perceptor try to pick up the pieces, the serious cases that aren't critical or severe enough to demand Ratchet's attention. And Sideswipe and his brother have taken enough mechs apart to have a passing knowledge of fixing the little stuff. So they do. They apply temporary patches and weld some cracks and slap so much nanite gel around that it cakes in their joints.   
  
For once, Sunstreaker doesn't complain. Sideswipe's pretty proud of him.   
  
Two weeks pass before life returns to anything close to normal. Before Optimus is walking right and Ironhide doesn't look like someone sucker-punched him in the spark and Ratchet loses that pinched expression of worry and the level of cheer in the Ark rises back from its residency in a swampy mire.   
  
And Sunstreaker points out that, technically, in the courting process, they are supposed to approach Ratchet for the fifth date. Because it's make it or break it time and they need to decide if they are going to invest in this courtship or walk away clean. That's not to say they are supposed to get down on one knee and talk spark-bonding. But it does mean that if they do take Ratchet up on his offer, they are not to allow anyone else to court them, or engage in intimate contact beyond the strictures of the contract.   
  
Sideswipe throws his hands into the air. “What the frag does that even mean?” He swears that this stupid Idiot's Guide doesn't even speak Cybertronian sometimes!  
  
Sunstreaker thwaps him upside the helm. “No fragging around, dumb aft. It's an exclusivity clause.”   
  
Sideswipe rubs his helm and glares at his brother. “What?”   
  
Sunstreaker rolls his optics. “No clanging anyone else.”   
  
Well, why didn't they just say that then? Sideswipe points out as much and dodges Sunstreaker's exasperated swipe.   
  
“You are impossible,” Sunstreaker huffs. “No sense of romance.”   
  
“Bro, you look in the mirror lately? Romance is not what we do.”   
  
Sunstreaker turns his back to him and hunches over the guide. “That doesn't mean we can't start,” he says, and there's something in his tone, something aching and unsure, and suddenly, Sideswipe gets it.  
  
“You have a point.” He throws an arm over Sunstreaker's shoulders and leans into his twin, tipping their helms together. “Okay. So. What do we do?”   
  
Sunstreaker is silent for a long moment and Sideswipe can feel the debate that rages in his brother's processor.   
  
“We draft a contract,” Sunstreaker says, at length, and he hands the guide to Sideswipe. “And then we offer it to Ratchet.”   
  
Sideswipe nods and skims the sample contracts given in the guide. Thank Primus they have something to go by. “Seems simple enough. Public or private?”  
  
“Either. It's our discretion.”   
  
Sideswipe grins and taps his forehelm against Sunstreaker's. “Awful big words this guide is teaching us.”   
  
“I noticed.” Sunstreaker taps the datapad, his finger lingering on the edge of it. “You do want to do this, right?”   
  
“You'd know it if I didn't.” Sideswipe squeezes Sunstreaker against his side and then grabs his brother's hand, pulling him toward their couch. “Come on. Let's get this thing drafted and ready to go. Ratchet isn't getting any younger.”   
  
“Hah.” Sunstreaker manages a grin and that edge is gone, which is exactly what Sideswipe intended.   
  
It only takes them ten minutes to hash out the details and then another ten minutes for Sunstreaker to sift through his work, picking a small painting to serve as their acceptance and offering gift for Ratchet. Afterward, it's a quick ping to Teletraan who informs them Ratchet is in his quarters before they are on their way, more nervous than Sideswipe can ever remember feeling.   
  
They arrive at Ratchet's door just in time to see Wheeljack coming out. When he sees them, he winks and gives them two thumbs up, all without saying a word.   
  
“He approves, I guess?” Sideswipe says, watching the engineer stride down the hall.   
  
Sunstreaker snorts and pings Ratchet's door.   
  
They hear a low curse, a scramble, and then the door opens with Ratchet already in the midst of talking, “--forget something already... Oh. It's you.”   
  
Sideswipe raises his orbital ridges. “Is this a bad time?”   
  
Ratchet's pedes shuffles in place as he looks between them. “No. I just...” He pauses, backtracks, and then straightens. “You've been reading the guide?”   
  
“Yes.” Sunstreaker, ever the one to barrel through, thrusts the small painting in Ratchet's direction. “Our gift. To you.”   
  
Ratchet cycles his optics and takes the small frame, handling it with a gentleness that had gained him so much acclaim for his surgical skill. “It's beautiful,” he says. “Thank you.”   
  
“You're welcome.” Sunstreaker nudges Sideswipe with his elbow. “Your turn.”   
  
Fragging bossy-- Sideswipe huffs. “We wanted to bring you this, too,” he says and hands over the datapad with their carefully crafted contract.   
  
It's Ratchet's turn to raise his orbital ridges. “You know what it means, right?”   
  
“I read the book,” Sunstreaker says.   
  
“He studied the book,” Sideswipe corrects.   
  
Sunstreaker glares but Ratchet makes a dull noise in his chassis that stops it from escalating further.   
  
“Well done,” Ratchet says and he wiggles the datapad at them. “You learn quickly. I'm impressed.”  
  
“Not the same as being interested,” Sunstreaker grumbles, folding his arms.   
  
It's Sideswipe's turn to elbow his twin in the side, not that it has much of an effect. It rarely does on Sunstreaker.   
  
“No, it's not the same,” Ratchet concedes, but he pulls out a small cable from his wrist and plugs into the datapad. “But I should have thought my interest to be obvious by now.”   
  
The datapad gives off a charming chime of approval and then Ratchet disconnects, handing it back. Sideswipe accepts it and glances over the document with Sunstreaker peering over his left shoulder.   
  
Ratchet's glyph of approval shines bright and pretty at the bottom. And then there's a bubbly sensation in Sideswipe's spark. He grins.   
  
Sunstreaker takes it from him, examining the pad in more detail, though it's the same thing they'd finalized only a few minutes before.   
  
“What comes next?” Sideswipe asks.   
  
Ratchet tilts his helm and leans against the door frame. “Another date, after which we are free to explore our compatibility.” The way he speaks the last is positively lewd.   
  
“Ratchet has to invite us,” Sunstreaker offers, almost absently. He's still studying the contract as though he's never seen it before.   
  
“That I do.” Ratchet pushes himself off the frame. “And I'll contact you later with the details.”   
  
“Why not now?”   
  
“Because I was about to recharge for once and I still plan on doing so,” Ratchet says and waves a hand at them. “Good night.”   
  
“Just like that?” Sideswipe demands.   
  
Ratchet's engine rumbles at them, like a concealed chuckle. “Just like that.” He turns to go back into his quarters only to pause and waggle a finger at them. “And remember, no interfacing.”   
  
“You really think we've been playing around since this started?” Sideswipe asks, rolling his optics.   
  
Ratchet's smirk, however, widens. “That includes with each other, Sides.”   
  
His jaw drops. “No, it doesn't.... does it?” He hopes not.   
  
Sunstreaker holds the datapad in front of him. “It does now.” He taps the screen.   
  
Sideswipe looks. Oh, that's pure evil. Ratchet had amended the contract, obviously in an attempt to drive them crazy or enact some sort of revenge.   
  
“But!” Sideswipe splutters, gripping the datapad with both hands and staring down the innocent looking line.   
  
Ratchet actually laughs this time, his field ripe with humor and affection. “Be on your best behavior now.” He winks at them, winks!, and then he closes the door, leaving Sideswipe gaping at him.   
  
Sunstreaker shakes his helm. “I think we're in over our helms, Sides.”   
  
He looks at his brother and sighs. “Sunny, I don't think we were ever on solid ground to start with.”   
  


****


	18. Personal Experience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tracks offers a flustered pair of twins some advice regarding Courtship.

He watches Sideswipe from across the room, more than a little amused by the defeated slump of the red twin's shoulders. He's slouched over the table, helm buried in his folded arms, low groans rising up from the cocoon of his armor braces.   
  
Sunstreaker smirks as he sits nearby, occasionally reading aloud from a datapad that Tracks suspects is the _Idiot's Guide to Courting_ Ironhide had given them.   
  
Poor Sideswipe, all the rules must be driving him crazy. Though Sunstreaker doesn't seem to mind. Tracks wonders if they've gotten to the exclusivity stage yet. He wonders if Ratchet is just devious enough to make them Alpha standard. For two mechs with a healthy interfacing drive, it would be torture.   
  
Tracks chuckles and takes another sip of his energon. Sideswipe looks so lost. Maybe he ought to wander over there and offer some advice. After all, it's in the best interest of his bank accounts to help the underdog.   
  
Tracks rises from his table and crosses the refectory, pulling open a chair at the Twins' table and inviting himself. Sideswipe doesn't so much as look up but Sunstreaker blinks at him.   
  
“Can we help you?”   
  
“Actually, I might be able to help you,” Tracks says with a gesture toward the datapad. “I know a little something about the topic at hand.”   
  
Sunstreaker's lip curves in a smirk. “Is that so?”   
  
“Can he tell us why Ratchet is torturing us?” Sideswipe demands from the protection of his arms. And there's a bit of a tetchy whine to his vocals, too.   
  
Tracks chuckles. “Suitor's prerogative.” He sips at his cube. “It's a way to gauge the courted's interest.”   
  
One blue optic peeks at him from behind the safety of a red arm. “You mean drive us crazy.”   
  
“It was a common practice. You're too young to understand,” Tracks replies, though it's an odd thing to consider. As long-lived as Cybertronians are, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are still pretty young.   
  
Go, Ratchet. Not quite robbing the cradle, to put it in human terms, but he's pretty spry for an old mech. Tracks is rather proud of his audacity. Then again, Ratchet never has been one to quail in the face of a challenge.   
  
“I get it,” Sunstreaker retorts with an offended air. “It's that one who doesn't.” He pins his brother with something like a glare.   
  
“What's to get?” Sideswipe pops up like a Spring daisy, chair screeching beneath him. He fixes Sunstreaker with narrowed optics. “It's all a big joke.”   
  
Tracks revs his engine. “It is not a joke,” he says, and there's a sharpness to his tone he hadn't intended. “It is many things, Sideswipe, but courting is not a joke.” This whole situation is amusing, to a certain extent, and it's nice to see Sideswipe floundering for once, but Sunstreaker does seem to be the only one giving it the serious attention it deserves.   
  
Sideswipe cycles his optics. Sunstreaker tilts his helm, giving Tracks a thoughtful look. He sets the datapad down, though he keeps a hand on it.   
  
“You have experience?” Sunstreaker asks.   
  
“I've been courted,” Tracks says, allowing himself a sly smile. He's about to blow their minds with shock. Though he's tempted to keep the identity of his bond to himself.   
  
“You have?” Sideswipe's optics widen. “What happened?”   
  
“There's really only two outcomes, Sides,” Tracks says and he leans forward, lowering his vocal tones. “Either a bond or a separation of ways.”   
  
“And?” Sideswipe prompts.   
  
Tracks smirks and lets himself lean back against his chair. “Now that would be telling. But I can reassure you, if Ratchet is courting you, it's because he's serious. No one would initiate the courting process for a joke.”   
  
“A bond?” Sunstreaker repeats and he's staring at Tracks hard before his gaze travels back to his datapad. “Ratchet wants to... bond?”   
  
Tracks rolls his shoulders. “Probably. The courting process is designed so that either party can withdraw but if he initiated it, then it's likely that yes, that is his desire.”   
  
The Twins exchange glances as though this outcome had never occurred to them. Not that Tracks can fault their shock. The two idiots had probably never noticed how long Ratchet had been pining after them. Then again, it would have taken a keen observer to notice and while neither Twin is dumb, they aren't as observant when it comes to matters of the spark.   
  
Then again, Tracks had been as blind when it came to his own sparkmate, all those millennia ago.   
  
And then Sideswipe looks at Tracks with a tilt of his helm. “Wait. Does that mean you're bonded?” he asks and then he looks all around the refectory as though Tracks' sparkmate is going to jump out from beneath a table to scare him.   
  
Which is an amusing mental image. So unlikely as to be impossible, but still, amusing.   
  
“Yes,” Tracks answers.   
  
“To an Autobot?” Sunstreaker asks, leaning forward and bracing his weight against the table.   
  
Tracks grins and lets that answer speak for itself.   
  
Sideswipe's jaw drops. “But you...?”  
  
“Have a non-exclusivity clause,” Tracks supplies. He's quite sure they haven't gotten that far in their reading. “The humans would call it an open relationship. My spark belongs to him, but I can share my frame as I please.”   
  
Sunstreaker leans harder against the table. “Who?”   
  
Is this how Sideswipe feels when he's plotting a particularly hilarious prank? Because Tracks' amusement grows as he debates telling them or letting them wonder. But he supposes they'll understand better if he gives them a name.   
  
“Ultra Magnus.”   
  
They blink at him.   
  
“Wait,” Sideswipe says, holding up a hand. “Optimus' brother, Ultra Magnus? The very same mech who'd been leading the offensive on Luna-1 while we were stuck in stasis. That Ultra Magnus?”   
  
“One and the same.”   
  
They blink at him again, and then in a startling unison they rarely show, “How?”  
  
Tracks' smile widens. “He wasn't always Ultra Magnus,” he says but then he shakes his helm, trying to get them back on track. “The point I'm trying to get at is this, courting is serious but it doesn't have to be restrictive. It's just a method to identify potential mates, not unlike the way humans date, only there are rules to follow. It protects everyone involved.”   
  
“And it's romantic,” Sunstreaker says and then his optics widen and his faceplates heat, as though he hadn't meant to let so much slip.   
  
“Yes,” Tracks agrees, choosing not to tease Sunstreaker for the slip. After all, Sideswipe would snark back. Sunstreaker likes to respond with a fist to the face. “It's considered very romantic. You two are lucky.”   
  
They exchange glances. Sunstreaker drags his datapad a little closer as though it contains the secrets of the universe.   
  
Good. Tracks hopes they understand now.   
  
He pushes to his pedes. “If you have any questions about the courtship process, I'll be happy to answer them. At least better than Ironhide will.” The Prime's bodyguard is getting far too much entertainment out of the whole process.   
  
Pah. Ironhide and Optimus never courted. While Ultra Magnus had reveled in the courtship process, Optimus hadn't bothered with Ironhide. They'd fallen into berth together and never climbed back out. They aren't even spark bound! The indecency!  
  
Tracks leaves them to their energon and their datapad and judging by the looks between them, their internal conversation. No doubt they'll be seeking him out in the future, for clarification if nothing else. They've passed the first, casual stages of courtship. It only gets more complicated from here. But also? Lots and lots more fun.   
  
Tracks smiles to himself, thinking of his own courtship. It had been the stuff romance vids were born from. He'd met Ultra Magnus – then Dion – while slumming it on the docks and some uncouth slagger had knocked Dion into him, spilling high grade everywhere, including on Tracks' recently polished frame. Numerous apologies and flustered attempts at cleaning later and Tracks had been utterly charmed. He hadn't even intended to insist on courtship procedure but Dion wanted it and the clear-cut guidelines.   
  
And the rest, as they say, is history.   
  
Tracks touches a hand to his chestplate, the pulse of his spark beneath and the distant fuzz of Ultra Magnus within. He hasn't spoken to his sparkmate since before the Ark crashed – Soundwave makes such personal communication unwise – but they are aware of each other. There will come a day when they can reunite.   
  
Tracks looks forward to it. But until then, he supposes he can help Ratchet find his own touch of happiness, even if it means snagging the Twins.   
  


***


	19. On the Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's mystery afoot and Jazz is determined to get some answers.

Jazz plops down into the seat and plants his most winning smile on his face. “Hey, Red--”  
  
“No. Absolutely not.”  
  
Jazz cycles his optics. “Wow. That was kinda abrupt. You don't even know what I'm about to ask.”  
  
Red Alert fixes him with a gimlet optic, just one however, because the other is fully focused on the array of security monitors. “I don't need to know. Unless you bring me an order issued by Prowl and Prime, my answer is no.”  
  
Jazz arches an orbital ridge. “I rank you.”  
  
Red Alert huffs a ventilation and returns his optic to the task at hand. He doesn't rebut Jazz's statement but neither does he acknowledge Jazz any further. His fingers are far too busy with the keyboard and the four cables he has connecting himself to the console are also responsible for stealing his focus.  
  
Still. He should be able to carry on a conversation.  
  
“Red?”  
  
Nope. Shut down. Completely.  
  
Well, Jazz supposes this is one argument he's not going to win. Red Alert's even more stubborn than Prowl and twice as ornery. He's really going to make Jazz get a proper order knowing good well Jazz's current business is off-the-record.  
  
Grr.  
  
Jazz hauls himself back to his pedes and slips into a long stretch. “Fine,” Jazz says, dragging out the glyphs just to watch Red Alert twitch. “But I'll be back.”  
  
Red Alert makes a noncommittal noise without sparing Jazz another glance.  
  
Jazz drags himself from the security room, a mech defeated. Unlucky that Red Alert had parsed this wasn't official business. Otherwise he wouldn't have given Jazz so much.  
  
S'okay though. Because Jazz has a back up plan.  
  
He hangs a sharp left and heads for communications. His main mech should be on duty, due to head off within the hour and Jazz better catch him before he switches out for someone a little less bribeable. Like Windcharger. Jazz still hasn't figured out what gets the mini's magnetics charged.  
  
It's on his to do list though.  
  
Down the hall, Jazz hears Blaster before he sees the carrier mech. Music is loud enough to be heard through the door, and it's a grooving beat, too. Jazz adds a shuffle and a twist to his walk as he keys the door open and dances into communications.  
  
Here it's even louder and Jazz isn't surprised to find that Blaster's on-shift alone. Prime must be in recharge or out on one of his rare patrols if he hasn't commed in to demand that Blaster turn that nonsense off.  
  
Sometimes, the Boss just doesn't have a sense of style.  
  
Blaster is bobbing his helm to the music as he sits at the console, cabled like Red Alert only slightly less so.  
  
“Blaster, my mech!” Jazz says, throwing himself over the back of an empty chair and landing asprawl in it next to his best musical buddy. “How’s it hummin’?”   
  
Blaster tips his helm toward Jazz, a smile curving on his lips. “In tune and on beat, my main mech,” he says with a wink. “What’s shakin’?”   
  
“Not the ground, I hope,” Jazz says and leans his chair back, propping his pedes up on the console.   
  
Blaster, at least, won’t fuss at him like Red would.   
  
“Nothin’ stirrin’ out there either.” Blaster’s left hand waves toward the monitors and then taps his audials.   
  
No word from the Cons then. Or transmissions from out yonder. Cosmos must not have checked in yet either. And… Jazz checks… nope. Not time for the patrols to comm in either. All’s quiet on the front. For now.   
  
“Good ta know.” Jazz bobs his helm to the beat, his pedes bouncing on the console. He might have to get this track from Blaster. He's rather keen on it. “Got a question for ya.”   
  
“I'm all audials.”   
  
“Ya remember the party last month, right?”   
  
Blaster grins at him. “I remember. Hadn't had high grade like that in forever. And obviously, the crew hadn't either. There were a lot of overcharged mechs that night.” He pauses and the music lowers in volume. “I seem ta remember you leavin' with a quiet little microscope.”   
  
“I did. I did.” Jazz smiles, the flush of warmth that flutters his spark as weird as it is exciting.   
  
Perceptor is cute and quiet and almost meek, except when you get him going, and he's one of the last mechs Jazz thought he would have fallen for. But here he is, chasing after Perceptor like a lost puppy, spark aflutter at every shy smile he coaxes free.   
  
“Wow.” Blaster spins his chair, giving Jazz a long look. “Hadn't seen that look on you before. It suits you.”   
  
Jazz folds his arms under his bumper, tapping his fingers over his grill. “Thanks. But enough about me. I got a mystery that needs solving and Red's already told me--”  
  
“--to get lost?”   
  
“He was very polite about it. Sorta.” Jazz gives Blaster a rueful grin. “He doesn't understand the importance of this investigation.”   
  
Blaster chuckles. “Well then. What's needin' investigating?”   
  
Jazz listens to the last strains of the song and waits for the next to start up before he answers. “A certain pal of 'Ceptor's is unhappy and I'm aimin' to find out why. Seems to me things didn't go so well for him the night of the party. I'm a mite bit curious as to who the dance partner was.”   
  
“Ah.” Blaster pauses, something in his expression shifting downward. “I'm guessing you're talking about Skyfire.”   
  
“Knew I could count on you, my main mech.” Jazz twirls his chair, spinning it to face Blaster and allowing him to prop his pedes on the arm of Blaster's chair. “What have those amazin' audials of yours picked up?”   
  
Blaster cycles a ventilation and then the music cuts off. “I, uh, actually know the answer to your question.”  
  
Jazz lifts his orbital ridges. “Oh? Spill.”   
  
“That, uh, was me.” Blaster scratches at his chin and gives Jazz a lopsided smile. “... Surprise?”   
  
Jazz cycles his optics. Whoa. He had not expected that at all.   
  
Blaster spread his hands. “See. Here's the thing. I thought he wanted somethin' casual. Y'know? All in good fun? But then it turns out, no, he actually kind of... likes me? And 'Fire's a cool mech. He's hot as frag. But me? I'm not looking for commitment. Got the little mechs to think of, y'know? And this war...?” He rubs the back of his helm, his field pulsing with apology. “I just don't want to get attached to someone who might not come back, ya dig?”   
  
Oh, dear. This is a pretty pickle.   
  
“Ah,” Jazz says and no, it's not the most suave response he could have come up with but Blaster had spoken all that in a rush. “I take it, then, you've noticed how less than chirrupy our shuttle friend has become?”  
  
Blaster's shoulders slump and he twists his fingers together. “Yeah. I tried talkin' to him, but he's avoidin' me. Not that I blame him.”   
  
Ah. And this would be the reason romantic entanglements are occasionally frowned upon. It doesn't help that it's poor Skyfire, whose struggles to find his place have been well-noted by Jazz.   
  
He sighs. Well, at least he's got an answer to give Perceptor even if it's not a pretty one.   
  
“I'll take care o' it,” Jazz promises. He sits up with a snap of the chair and pats Blaster on the shoulder. “These things happen sometime.”   
  
He leaves a less than cheery Blaster behind, whose tunes have shifted from a jamming beat to something with a lot less pep, and ventures back into the Ark. This is a delicate situation, Jazz ponders. One that must be handled with the utmost care. Jazz suspects there had been some miscommunication involved, no doubt attributed in part to the copiously flowing high grade.   
  
It's always the high grade.   
  
Still.   
  
That's going to be an awkward situation for a while. Luckily, they don't really travel the same social circles but if Skyfire's on long-range patrol and Blaster's on the comms? Awk-ward. Oh, they'll be professional, but Jazz doesn't want to be nearby. He cringes just thinking about it.   
  
How to solve this without hurting either of them? Getting them to talk to each other would be a good start. Make sure there's no hard feelings, et cetera.   
  
Because if Optimus has noticed that Skyfire's sulking more than usual, that means it's a Problem To Be Solved and he'd looked at Jazz as the Problem-Solver. So. Jazz flexes his fingers and cracks his knuckles, a nice mannerism Sparkplug taught him.   
  
Time to get to work.   
  
He just has to find Skyfire first.   
  


***


End file.
